Recently, I found myself grappling with some unexpected frustration. It lingered from the moment I woke up, but it became more pronounced as the day progressed. I brewed my morning coffee—my usual remedy for a rough start—and pulled some chicken from the freezer. By thawing that chicken, I was inadvertently signing up for a culinary commitment that would unfold ten hours later. It felt like a declaration—before I’d even had breakfast, I was already fixated on dinner. My irritation toward that chicken was palpable.
As the hours went by, the thawing chicken seemed to mock me. “You’ve promised chicken cordon bleu, after all. It’s your son’s favorite dish, and he’s been anticipating it all week. Don’t forget, you’ll need to start prepping me in about three hours!” Enough already! I just wanted to dive into my book or take a nap instead. My frustration intensified.
By mid-afternoon, I realized I needed to share my feelings, so I reached out to my friend, Mia.
Me: “I have to confess…I’m really annoyed with dinner today.”
Mia: “That’s tough! Let it out!”
Me: “It’s so selfish, always demanding my attention. It never prepares itself.”
Mia: “I completely get it.”
Me: “I used to enjoy cooking! It was even part of my bio at my first pediatric office!”
Mia: “Haha! Now it probably reads: ‘At home, Emily enjoys avoiding her kids and making sarcastic remarks.’”
Me: “Exactly!”
Mia: “I understand how you feel.”
That validation helped me reflect on my complicated emotions surrounding dinner. Once upon a time, I genuinely enjoyed cooking. I would watch cooking shows and experiment with new recipes, but things changed when I had children.
Nothing can deflate your confidence in the kitchen quite like kids. After spending over an hour preparing a meal, you find yourself facing a table of tears. And no, I don’t cater separate meals for them. You’d think they’d acclimate to the idea of eating what’s served, but after nine years, it’s still a nightly battle. Often, one of them will refuse to eat, choosing hunger over the perceived horror of teriyaki salmon and steamed broccoli. If they do eat, it leads to negotiations for dessert that can be even more tiresome.
At this point, I feel utterly drained by dinner and all the stress it brings—planning, cooking, serving, and cleaning. Thankfully, my husband works from home, so I only have to tackle dinner duty a couple of times a week. You’d think that would alleviate some of the stress, but it hasn’t improved our relationship. Dinner, in my opinion, needs to acknowledge its role in this tension.
Dinner is inconsiderate, always arriving during the evening chaos when my children are at their most unruly. It’s also time-consuming—planning, shopping, prepping, and cooking can feel like a marathon. And let’s not even discuss how long it takes a child to consume a simple meal. Dinner is relentless; it demands to be made every single day. The more you cook, the higher the expectations, as family members incessantly ask, “What’s for dinner?”
Dinner is one of the most fraught times for parents, filled with noise, complaints, interruptions, and endless distractions. I’ve reached a point where I need a break from it. I think a few weeks of cereal and toast in front of the TV might do wonders for my sanity.
I shared my feelings with my husband, who suggested that I focus on the positive aspects of dinnertime. Really?
I’m not sure if dinner and I can reconcile any time soon. Maybe we can find some common ground, but it seems unlikely in the near future.
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In summary, a mother’s relationship with dinner can be fraught with emotions, challenges, and even resentment. The responsibilities of preparing meals can often overshadow the joy of cooking, turning dinnertime into a battleground of expectations and frustrations. Finding a balance and recognizing the pressures that come with it can help pave the way toward a healthier approach to family meals.