I think we adults can all agree there’s something strangely satisfying about embarrassing our kids.

Personally, I find Crimson Inferno to be an ideal shade for a fifth-grade girl’s face. Even if I’m not present to witness these spikes in facial redness, I like to hear the circumstances surrounding the embarrassment event.

We’re not talking full-blown humiliation here, just a little nonsense to evoke another, “Daddy! What’s WRONG with you?!”

Starting with elder daughter Geni around second grade, my job was fixing breakfast — right after breaking breakfast — for not only for our 7-year-old but also us parents at random times. While Geni was forcing down her strangled eggs and Cajun-inspired toast, Chef Daddyo was filling her lunch box and water bottle. Nothing elaborate, just the standard fare of deli meat sandwiches, PB&J’s, soup or leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. Jen is a terrific cook, so anything from her wok or skillet was a welcome sight in Geni’s box.

Since my own cooking falls somewhere between misdemeanor and culinary felony, the lunches I prepared were cautiously constructed. Nothing noteworthy.

And that’s what inspired me to make lunch more interesting by sneaking unusual or unwanted items into her lunch box.
It started one Monday morning with a can of tomato paste placed up against her sandwich. Wednesday saw a hunk of ginger root the size of a ping-pong paddle. By Friday, Geni had opened her lunch box to discover a can of 9 Lives Gourmet Grill cat chow – the mystery meats that convert cats to a vegetarian lifestyle.

My rule was: If it shouldn’t be in a school lunch box, why, that’s precisely what will go in.

I was eager for Geni’s return from school so I could hear her reaction to the hijinks. Two minutes after she stepped off the bus and was attempting to wriggle out of her heavy backpack, I was launching a full interrogation.

“What happened at lunch? What did you think of the side order of cat chow? Who else saw this? What did they say … leave out nothing!”
Her accounts ranged from giggles to gasps. Curious classmates would glance her way to see what silliness Geni faced that day.

Over the years I cycled through bottles of spices, cans of aromatic fish, raw parsnips, potatoes, hot sauces and the always questionable cat food. Eventually, Geni would be surprised if there wasn’t something weird loitering next to her peanut butter and jelly wrap.

Geni is now 22 and poised to graduate from UNH in May. I’ll be looking for my “Thanks for the Pranks” message top her mortarboard.
Emerita came along in January of 2015 and for the first few years she somehow dodged Daddyo’s nonsense.

Still in charge of breakfast-lunch operations at the Whipple Manor, I launched my Modified Sandwich Initiative last year while Emerita was in fourth grade.

It started by constructing her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with two types of jelly separated evenly on the bread. That graduated to three strips of different jams.

Then diagonally slathered strawberry aside of peach jelly. On bonus days, the sandwich was cut in four squares or triangles.

Riding a creativity tsunami, I packed her a triple-slice sandwich featuring peanut butter and layers of apple, grape and strawberry jelly. Emerita was as thrilled as any other young lady whose lunch was spent flailing in preserves.

On another day, she was blessed with a ham-and-cheese left side carefully fitted to a right side of Jif & jelly. Oh, she does her best to shield the contents of her lunch box from intrigued classmates, but there are still times when a gasp requires a sheepish explanation that Daddy just ain’t right in the head.

Several days before the annual Daddy-Daughter Dance, Emerita announced, “Daddy, all kookiness and funky business will be permitted at the dance. We’ll do crazy dances.”

I felt faint. The only thing more embarrassing than my lunches is the full slate of impromptu dance moves that accompanies breakfast and lunch production while 1970s disco booms from the Bose on the microwave. Some are real dance moves borrowed from Batman and Jerry Lewis, while others, like the Spin-and-Flip, result in laughs — and eggs sunny-side-splattered.

“The Batusi? The Corkscrew … The Bird?” I asked breathlessly, acting out each absurd dance.

“Yes, yes,” she grinned, mimicking my moves.

We spent the better part of two hours incorporating jump-and-jive foolishness into the DJ’s excellent selection of pop songs. The slow dances received the expected degree of respect, which vanished during the next bouncy song requiring wacky dancing and satirical lyrics.
Like nearly every other young girl, Emerita is a fan of Taylor Swift-Kelce. Before each TSK song, because I have no shame, I’d coo, “We’re Swifties!”

It was a glorious night.

This morning, Emerita shuffled into the kitchen in her PJs smiling: “I think we fulfilled our mission last night of kookiness and funky business.”

Yes, yes we did. My training has paid off.