Sometimes it’s nice to be the hero.
I order seven large pizzas for lunch for F.’s second grade class expecting each child to eat two slices. Some do but many don’t. Everyone finishes lunch and I still have one large pizza left over.
“Take it home,” suggests the teacher. She knows I have three boys and three bottomless stomachs.
“How about the custodial staff? Do you think they’d like pizza?”
She agrees they would and I box up the remaining pie and head downstairs.
To get to the custodial office, I cut through the cafeteria. My timing couldn’t be more perfect. I’s class enters as I do and he waves hello.
“You brought me pizza?” his eyes light up in surprise. We’ve been having a rough few days. Life is hard when you’re ten and your mom keeps telling you what to do.
“Would you like pizza?” I ask. I think of the packed lunch in his hand of sliced oranges and a turkey sandwich.
“Yeah!” he grins.
Luckily, along with the pizza box, I also carry a stack of plates. I pile two large slices and hand them to my child.
“Lucky!” shouts a friend from the other side of a lunch table. No, I think. I’m lucky. I have this great kid and I happen to walk through the lunchroom during his assigned time with a large cheese pizza. What are the chances?
“Hey,” I mock whisper to I. and he steps closer. “Have a great day, okay?”
My friend and I continue our trek to the custodians to deliver the pizza.
“You are a hero!” she jokes.
For parents, our status of cool to drool drops faster than a lead balloon.
Hero? Hardly. But if he wants to believe it for the next five minutes, I'll happily let him.