Love in a Lunchbox

by Valerie Marie-Valérie Couture de Troismonts, clinical psychologist.

"Attention is the beginning of devotion," -  Mary Oliver

In a cafeteria of 400 students, one little note made a child feel seen.

Not many months ago, while talking with my daughters, I asked them a question:

“If you had to choose just one, what is the happiest memory you keep from your childhood?”

Sofi, who is 20 years old, answered almost immediately,

“Your little notes in my lunchbox.”

I was stunned. Amazed and speechless. I never imagined I would receive that answer.

Years ago, when they were in primary school, I used to wake up early to prepare the lunchboxes they took to school with their meals. One day, I took a colorful Post-it and wrote something from the heart to each of them. I packed the containers, the juices, the apples, and there went the little notes.

I will never forget their radiant faces when they came out of school in the afternoon. Before greeting me, they would say, “What a beautiful note you wrote to me today, Mummy. I love you too.” That was the very first thing they mentioned. Not the good grade they got on a test, not the announcement of a best friend’s birthday. Sometimes they would open their small hands and show me their own little love letter that they had written at some point during the day, just for me.

I have kept some of those notes in my memory box. Some said they were my sun and that they brought light into my life. Many said I loved them all the way to the oceans, the lands, and the most distant planets, endlessly. In others, I wished them a beautiful day, as beautiful as they were. Many times, I reminded them to always be kind to their classmates and to spread their joy to others.

It was not something I did every day—only from time to time, so that the element of surprise would remain. As we all know, even the best things, when they happen too often, stop feeling so special.

Sometimes I added a candy or their favorite chocolate. Other times, instead of a Post-it, there were longer letters. And once in a while, there were tiny stuffed animals that I had found in a toy store.

Then I heard Sofi reminiscing about that moment in her life.

“Do you know what it was like, Mummy, to be the only one in a cafeteria of 400 students who received those notes? Later it became wonderful, because it seems my friends told their mums that you sent me those things, and then several of us had lunchboxes with little surprises. Sometimes, when the bell rang for the first recess, I would open my lunchbox just to see if there was something there.”

I remained silent, listening, moved and astonished. I was realizing that the happiest memory of her childhood was not any of those birthday parties with lights, entertainers, smoke machines, and half a dozen Disney characters. Not the incredible trips to dream destinations we took with them. Not the expensive pink Barbie remote-control car that Santa once brought them. Not the many big gifts, big vacations, big moments—all achieved with great sacrifice and effort for them, in the name of love.

No. None of that.

Her happiest memory was the little notes in the lunchbox.

The love letters.

A few days later, I told their father about this. You know how these things are. They are very much ours, very much women’s things. We are the ones who prepare the lunchboxes. And the little notes too—for our children, for the fathers of our children, for our friends, for everyone.

The following week, I went to pick up my daughter Nicole from school. She is in her final year of high school. She had been sad and distressed for days because she had broken up with her boyfriend. And she said to me,

“You know what, Mummy? Today I opened my backpack and found a little note from Dad, with a chocolate.”

It said,

“Nicki, I do not want to see you like this. There are pains in life that are inevitable. Anything I can do to help you feel better, I would do. I love you. Dad.”

And this daughter of mine, who now wears high heels and mascara, was just as happy with her father’s little letter as she was when she wore a school uniform, had two pigtails in her hair, and was less than one meter tall.

May pencil and paper never be missing in your home, so you can write love letters to your children—now that they are small, when they are teenagers, and when they are adults, throughout their entire lives.

May it not be only a women’s thing. Let men write love letters again. Love letters also to their children.

Do not worry if they do not know Disney, or if they do not have clothes from fashionable brands, or the latest and most sophisticated toys. But trust me—never let pencil and paper be missing in your home.

We give them so much in the name of love, so that they feel appreciated and loved. And once again, it is they themselves who teach us that what truly leaves an unforgettable mark on their soul—and the unquestionable certainty of having been loved—are those simple, humble, and sincere expressions that come not from our wallets, but from the deepest part of our hearts.

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Love in a Lunchbox is part of Suddha Prem Magazine — Issue #4

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