Home Lunch

We had picked him up the evening before from another home. His behaviors were too aggressive, and the other family felt like his needs were higher than they were comfortable with. Ours would be the sixth foster home he’d lived in the past year.

We brought him home to our house, and our other boys helped carry his boxes into the house and into their room.  They showed him which bunk would be his, and which dresser.  

He was happily distracted by our dogs.  All four of them.  Which is about two too many.  But that’s another story.  The dogs were delighted by a new little body coming into our house, and wouldn’t leave him alone.  

He laughed, and promptly sat down on the living room floor to be mauled by our dogs as they vied for his attention.  

A little later we reminded him to get his things unpacked and put away into his dresser, and our boys again offered to help him.  No, he would do it, he said.  So they sat in there with him, trying to visit, while he unpacked his few things into the dresser drawers which were now his.

We ate dinner after that and he sat on the bench on what has become the “boys’ side” of the table and watched the happenings. Our dinner table is just slightly smaller than a ping pong table, and when we sit for dinners every seat is usually occupied.  He looked around eagerly at the other kids as they all sat down, and then giggled at the dogs begging shamelessly for a handout below him.

He was a long ways from home.  With no idea really why he had ended up here at our house. Nor any idea how long he’d be staying. He was just trying to take it all in. Trying to get his bearings.

After dinner we sent everyone off to get into pajamas before sitting down to watch a movie for a little while before bed.  In the process, four of the kids grabbed their lunch boxes out of backpacks so we could pack up their lunches early in the morning before they were up.

“Can I have a home lunch?” he asked, watching the parade of lunch boxes being set on the kitchen counter.

We were going to explain that most of the kids in our home actually get school lunches.  But we stopped.

Kids in the foster care system qualify for the federal lunch program.  Schools get additional monies based on how many of their students qualify for the federal lunch program.  So generally, we have our foster kids get school lunches and we pack lunches for “our kids.”  Those who are legally our kids.

But in our moment of hesitation, he added, “I’ve never had a home lunch.”  

Geoff opened the cupboard where the extra lunch boxes are kept and pulled out another one.

“Yep,” was all he said, setting the lunch box on the counter with the others.  

The boy smiled, and then went to get into his pajamas.

The next morning at breakfast, when the lunches were all lined up on the counter waiting to be returned to backpacks, the boy came out to the kitchen and was eyeing the lunch boxes.  Waiting.  We reminded him which lunch box was his, and instructed him to put it in his pack.  

He nodded.  “I like home lunch much better than school lunch,” he said, smiling.

We’ve heard that a lot over the years.  By our kids who are in the foster system.  And it’s an interesting contrast to  “our own kids” who would love to get a school lunch every once in a while.  

But last night there was something about the delivery of the request that hit both of us. 

It’s not about the lunch itself.  It’s not about preferring a peanut butter sandwich and an orange to a burrito and a fruit cup.  It’s not about whether it’s a hot lunch or a cold lunch.

It’s about having a home.  And a family.  It’s about having someone who actually makes a lunch for you.  It’s about belonging somewhere.  And I suppose when you’re 8 or 9 nothing says “I belong” faster than showing up at school carrying a home lunch.

So, as for this new little guy, we don’t know how long he’ll be here.  He’s a long ways from home.  But I’m pretty sure that for however long he’s here he’ll be going to school every day carrying a home lunch.