“Remember that day when you got me to school late and I missed lunch?” my four-year-old grandson asked me yesterday.

And, no, actually I didn’t.

No doubt there have been a few days when getting two kids up, dressed, fed, and out the door have seen him arrive at school with hair that I forgot to comb or underwear that I forgot to change. We’ve probably missed those molars a time or two in our rush to get through the teeth brushing, and maybe we’ve even arrived at school a few minutes late on occasion.

But late enough to miss lunch? I didn’t think so. 

Until I remembered that the lunch that we pack every day in the dinosaur lunch bag and put in his Spiderman backpack gets eaten not at noon, but a few minutes after 10 a.m. That his packed lunch of sandwich, chips, fruit and drink is probably not lunch at all, but breakfast. 

I discovered this by accident when he took an after school robotics class last year – a class that he loved and that could have been called, “let’s play with legos for and hour or so.”  

On his first day, the instructor asked if he’d like to buy the hot lunch that was offered before the class started at 1:30 p.m. Not wanting him to sit alone while everyone else was enjoying the Mexican equivalent of cafeteria food, I signed him up. 

Which meant that, by 2 p.m, he had already eaten his recommended three meals for the day.

It’s one of the biggest problems I’ve encountered in Mexico – mealtimes that are out of sync with the rumblings of a Midwestern stomach.

My grandson has adapted by eating however many meals he’s given, at whatever time. It works out okay for him. He’s a growing boy.

The problem is me. Who seems to have adapted by getting hungry and eating on both schedules.

Enjoying every bite of that second lunch. But a little worried about my growth spurt.