Eating Dad's Lunch
Or, “Proof That Kids Are Always Watching… Even When They’re Just Eating Your Sandwich.”
I grew up a chubby Black kid from mid-Michigan, the oldest of 3 kids. My father was, and is, a state government employee. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my father taught me to be a father myself through little things that he doesn’t even remember; leftover sandwiches, ties, and quiet professional discipline.
My father was the main breadwinner for the family. He would win this bread by driving downtown in the family sedan to languish under florescent lights to keep the wheels of bureaucracy moving.
My father never appeared to love going into the office. But day after day, month after month, year after year, he went. He went in the summer, when his button-down shirts would leave no room for self-ventilation. He went in the winter, when he would have to cover his leather shoes with flexible rubber outsoles to protect them from the relentless Michigan snow.
He always made sure that we had enough. We never went hungry, as evidenced by the “husky” fit pants that his eldest son had to wear. There was always food. There was always heat, water, and - huge for our area - cable TV. We always had cable, a relative luxury for our area.
On certain days, my father would bring home from work a portion of whatever he had for lunch. It was typically a sandwich; sometimes a steak sandwich from the local steak-and-onion joint, sometimes a turkey sandwich from a sub shop.
I relished those sandwiches.
Were they A+, fresh sandwiches with warm bread and fillings? Absolutely not. But they were Dad’s. And for a hungry kid, a lukewarm sandwich brought home by Dad trumped any McDonald’s burger.
And he didn’t get these sandwiches unless he had gone to the office. Perhaps they were his personal reward for sitting in front of a 1990’s computer screen for several hours a day.
My brother and sister never got these sandwiches. My father (perhaps unintentionally) left them for me. Possibly, he was hoping that he would get to eat it later…but they never got past me. He never chastised me for eating them. I felt chosen, even if he didn’t mean it that way.
What I don’t think he realized was that he was leaving more than a sandwich. He showed me how to care for a family. How to put food on the table.
It’s a simple thing, but you never know what your kid is going to pick up from you, what they are going to take away from their time in your home. The same goes for a coach and a player, or a manager and an employee.
I take those little things, the sandwiches, the rubber booties, and they showed me the most important part of being a father - being an example for your kid to follow. How to get things done, even if you didn’t want to do it. I work in front of my son; I want him to see that you have to plant before you can harvest, that our lifestyle is possible because of work. And while my son does NOT like the same food that I do, I make sure he has fresh chicken nuggets.
And I got that from my Dad.
