No-Dinner Tuesdays? Horrors!

March 6, 2012 by Jennifer Carsen

I just returned from a mid-day meeting at Lorelei’s daycare (we’re planning a 20th anniversary celebration for the school in June; should be fun).

One of the committee members, a teacher, ate a salad during the meeting. She mentioned that her family’s schedule is such that “I don’t get to eat dinner on Tuesdays.” She said this casually, in a way I might say, e.g., “I hear it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

But having a day of the week where you regularly don’t get to eat dinner? I was, to put it mildly, horrified. I was doubly horrified that her lunch of choice on this no-dinner Tuesday was a salad.

I have always firmly maintained that a salad does not a meal make, no matter how much meat or cheese or whatnot you adorn it with. Throw all that stuff between two thick pieces of bread, with a slice of Swiss, and maybe – maybe – you’re onto something there.

My lunch would never consist of just a salad. And, especially if there were a night I knew I wasn’t going to eat dinner, lunch would be something more along the lines of an entire roast chicken. With mashed potatoes.

When I got home from the meeting, I made myself a tuna melt and tried to remember the times in my life I’ve skipped dinner. I am embarrassed to admit I can’t come up with any. The day my lung collapsed, I still ate dinner after I came back from the ER (I don’t remember what it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t a salad).

Even as my water was actively breaking the night before Lorelei was born, I distinctly remember trying to talk Eric into ordering Chinese food. “Even if we have to go to the hospital, we can leave a note and money on the door, and you can come back and pick up the food later on.” I wish I could write this off as the delusional rantings of a woman in the early stages of labor, but, sadly, I’m like this pretty much all the time.

Whatever extracurricular activities Lorelei and the Chickpea eventually sign up for, we won’t be doing anything that necessitates no-dinner Tuesdays for Mommy. (Even if it means smuggling a contraband Hot Pocket into a little league game, a school play, or a flute recital.)

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