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On the menu: Penne pasta with chorizo and a dash of frustration

The Big Squeeze: The curse of the hot school lunch -- what do you mean you didn't eat it?

Kid’s gotta eat, right? Right?

Graeme McRanor/Metro

Kid’s gotta eat, right? Right?

It’s still dark when my alarm goes off. I’m tired - but not because there’s a newborn in the house. It’s because I stayed up late to watch “one more” episode of The OA on Netflix.

Should’ve gone to bed earlier. I curse.

Shower.

I get dressed. Lay out underwear, socks, shirt and jeans for son London.

The Big Squeeze:

He’s still sleeping. Diagonally, with one arm stretched out towards the headboard, the other pointing at the kicker.

Deader than disco.

“London - get up.”

He stirs.

“Let me guess - school,” he says, squeezing scorn from each syllable.

“Your clothes are on the bed.”

I go downstairs to make breakfast, realizing on approach that last night’s dinner dishes are still in the sink.  

I curse. Do dishes. Make London toast and blend a fruit-shake for myself.

For my lunch, I toss a salad.   

Back upstairs, London sits next to his clothes. Progress. I give him a hand putting them on because he’s eight and if I don’t he’ll be late for high school in 2021.

“Could I get a hot lunch today?” he asks.

It’s 8:30 a.m. and I’m boiling penne rigate. Then frying chorizo, adding vegan butter, salt, pepper, Parmigiano Reggiano and parsley. I toss it all into a Thermos and throw that and his water bottle into his backpack.

We trudge back upstairs to brush teeth. Then say goodbye to partner Suzy and daughter Dylan. I kiss baby on the forehead. She’s sleeping, no doubt exhausted from another night’s worth of peeing, pooping and puking.

Suzy is happy, even though she might never sleep again.  

I drop London at school. It’s 8:59.

Now coffee, a 45-minute commute then a glorious eight hours of work.

My parents get London at school and, after work, I drive 40 minutes to the YMCA, where he has weekly swimming lessons.

“He has math homework,” my mom says.

“How was lunch?” I ask as we get into the car.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he says.

I curse.

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