As a kid, summer vacation was full of promise: Endless days of play, trips to the beach and camping. As a teacher, it was an opportunity to recharge and develop new ideas for the next school year. As a parent, summer vacation meant no more packed lunches.

School lunches have been the bane of my existence since I first lugged my hand-me-down Gentle Ben metal lunch box to first grade. All the cool kids had yellow plastic Snoopy lunch boxes. It’s little comfort that according to eBay, my metal lunchbox is now worth six times as much as theirs.

The contents were equally problematic. I didn’t like bread, so sandwiches were out of the question. My mother packed me a plastic bag version of a charcuterie board, supplemented by vegetables. I enjoyed the lunches, but my classmates thought they were odd. On top of that, I had to buy milk, which I also hated. The daily challenge would be to sneak a nearly full milk carton onto the “throw out tray” without being caught. All I can say is that lunchtime was stressful and traumatic.

Even as an adult, packing lunch has never come naturally. While I may have gazed in awe at Jen Moore’s beautifully constructed artistic salads, I am more like my colleague Ash, who ate a giant bag of cauliflower for three days because she had neither the time nor inclination to pack anything else.

Naturally, I wasn’t surprised by my own children’s finickiness. A hot thermos of soup, baked chicken breast, cut veggies with ranch dip, Nutella-peanut butter sandwiches — at some point, I packed them all. Of course, once I got into a routine, the lunches would arrive home uneaten, and we’d need a new plan.

I was also too sympathetic to my kid’s quest for the perfect lunchbox. For Quin the requirements were simple: Large enough to hold food and a Yankees logo. My girls were pickier. Size, shape and colors were carefully considered, in addition to special features like ice pack compartments and matching containers. The great thing about lunch boxes is that they keep their contents safe and intact, unlike their pathetic cousin, the brown paper sack. The downside is that they are easy to forget and leave behind.

During Chloe’s eighth grade year, she lost four lunch bags. Each one reflected hours of consideration; therefore, each loss meant visiting every lost and found in Petrova School. Each loss prompted a visit to the bus garage to check their lost and found mountain. Despite our efforts to relocate the “perfect bag,” each search produced zero results, prompting a replacement.

Until the fourth missing box … after all, parental patience isn’t limitless. I ranted. I raved. I said something asinine like “you don’t deserve the responsibility of a lunch box.” I sentenced her to a lifetime of brown paper sacks as a consequence.

The following morning, I opened the faculty room refrigerator to drop off my pathetic lunch, and there it sat — Chloe’s missing lunch bag. I had a guilty flashback to the night before. Obviously, I had borrowed her lunch bag, forgotten to eat my lunch, and left it there for days. My tirade was yet another failure of motherhood.

Mentally, I counted back. It must have been about three days ago that I had abandoned this lunch. The bag would be full of slimy inedible salad now. There was only one solution: Throw out the spoiled lunch, bring the lunch bag home and apologize to Chloe.

With my metaphorical tail beneath my legs, I removed the bag from the fridge, unzipped it and removed the container. I turned my head away as I dumped the contents into the trash can, certain that it would smell.

Then I looked at the container in my hand.

It wasn’t my container.

Then I looked at the lunch bag.

It was the same as Chloe’s bag — except inside was a colleague’s name and phone number written neatly in Sharpie.

I had just thrown out someone’s lunch. Worse, it belonged to someone I didn’t know well. Someone I was pretty sure didn’t like me.

The evidence of my crime was displayed in the trash can. I certainly couldn’t transfer the salad back to the container. I could put the empty bag back in the fridge, but how could I just walk away and leave another person hungry?

So, I took a deep breath, gathered what money I could find, and went to my colleague’s classroom to confess. I can’t tell you how the confession was received because she stared at me speechlessly. I gave her the money so she could buy lunch.

It was never spoken of again.

Even now, I’m not sure what my colleague ate that day, but as for me, I ate humble pie.