By my rough estimate, I’ve made 2,160 peanut butter sandwiches just for my son’s lunch since he started school at age four.
(And by “my rough estimate,” I mean I asked ChatGPT to math for me because it was 7:30 a.m. when the inspiration for this story took place.)
That’s 4,320 slices of bread and approximately 135 jars of honey roasted peanut butter, which is the superior peanut butter, for the record, and no, I will not be entertaining any arguments at this time.
This math doesn’t include peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast or dinner or snacks, or times when he’s had two or three sandwiches in a single sitting.
Same lunch. Every day. Peanut butter sandwich. No jelly. No flair. Just a dependable, safe (for him) food I know he’ll eat.
Sensory processing disorder and severe food aversions have been a part of our life since he has been a part of our life, and because so much of our life for the past 16 years has been based in routine, it’s easy for mundane tasks like making a sandwich and packing a lunch to blur into the background of my days.
When I opened the newest loaf of bread to make his sandwich, I noticed an air bubble had left a giant hole in the slices. So I grabbed a Sharpie, and for no real reason, I drew a pirate face on his sandwich bag, with the bread hole as the eye.
Was it a good pirate? Absolutely not. The eye patch was lopsided. I am not what one would call an artist when it comes to my ability to draw.
But it made me laugh.
And when he opened his lunch box, it made him laugh, too.
(And then he didn’t eat it because he didn’t want to have to throw away the bag, so that was a fun thing to find three days later.)
I don’t know what inspired me. I’m not known around our house for being the silly one, though I do maintain that I am hilarious.
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Maybe it was a burst of creative energy. Maybe I just got tired of making the same sandwich every single day. Or maybe it was the realization that there are only two years left before my kid doesn’t need a packed lunch.
But that little doodle reminds me there’s room for whimsy, even in the routine. And if there’s one thing it feels like our lives need right now, it’s a little whimsy. It’s joy and laughter.
Parenting is full of lists and logistics. We check boxes, we sign forms. We pack backpacks. Rinse and repeat. But every now and then, we get the chance to inject a little joy into the monotony—a silly face, a surprise note, a purple pirate that might have diseased eyelashes.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.
And if you’re lucky, it’ll be something your kid remembers. I hope it’s something he remembers.
Sometimes a sandwich can be more than a sandwich. Especially when you’re approaching the light at the end of the lunchbox. And yes, I know that metaphor is broken.
So here’s your invitation:
Draw the thing. Write the note. Buy the googly eyes and put them in random places.
Let the mundane be magical, just for a moment. Because this is the magic they’ll remember.
As moms we put a metric shit ton of pressure on ourselves to “make magic” for our kids, and this story bookending Easter weekend when so many of us likely leaned into traditions we barely remember starting but which have begun, over the years, to wear us down, reminds me that mothering is in the little things.
Because one day, the sandwiches will stop. But the ability to find joy in the ordinary will endure.
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