Here’s the thing, I have a secret identity. I am a lunchroom monitor. That’s right, besides writing full time I spend about three hours everyday, Monday through Friday working as a lunch monitor.
“Jimmy, why are your fingers in Nick’s barbecue sauce?”
“Sit down. Please sit down. Just sit down. Sit down, now. Sit. Sit on your bottom. Sit down.”
“Oh, Sweetie, it’s okay, I’m sure your Mom meant to pack you a sandwich. She just forgot.”
“Didn’t you just go to the bathroom?”
Or, where else can I tackle those infernal Gogurt containers? They never tear open correctly, you know and everyday I end up with yogurt blurped out onto me or the kid. Every. Single. Day. I cringe when I see a kid holding one of those things in my direction. Of course it’s all made worse when I realize he’s had it in his mouth already. Ewww. I’ve learned to ask first. It’s a new rule: Never try to open your yogurt with your teeth.
Then there’s the conversations that go like this:
Kid: Johnny is weird
Me: Don’t say that. No he’s not.
Kid: He is so.
Me: Okay, why is Johnny weird?
Kid: Because he just stuck brownie up his nose.
Yes, there are so many things lunch monitors learn from kids. Like:
“Daddy slept on the porch last night.”
“My sneaker’s been in the toilet.”
But, I love my job. I love the kids. It’s a great gig for someone who would otherwise be glued to a screen 24/7.