Lithus' Lunch

I am not what one might call a caregiver. Nurturing is probably not the first word that comes to mind when my friends think of me. Domesticity is not my strong suit. And then there's Lithus' lunch.

Being a helicopter pilot isn't like other jobs. You don't get a lunch break. No one goes around the office and asks who wants to send out to the restaurant down the block. The vast majority of the time, you don't even have a free hand. If you have time for lunch, it's eaten during a fuel stop, or gulped down while the ground crew is setting up the next load. Days are long and either wicked cold or wicked hot. Breaks are few and far between. Lunch, when he can get it, is important.

Somewhere along the line, it became my job to make sure he has lunch. In the summer, I will get up at 3:30 or 4 in the morning to make his lunch and then go back to bed when he leaves at 4:30. In winter, the alarm doesn't go off until 6, so I just stay up. Regardless, while he's in the shower, I make his lunch.

I love making his lunch. I know the little things he likes. A small surprise. The way he enjoys his sandwich. The fact that he prefers two V-8s instead of just one. I love knowing that, whenever, however, his break is going to come, when he reaches for his lunch, he'll know it was made with love. Most importantly, though, I love that he loves it. And so every day he flies, he heads out with a lunch ~ and love.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.