By: Emily Carter
Updated: Jan. 31, 2023
Originally Published: May 16, 2021
The words I dread the most? “What’s for dinner?” It’s almost comical how often I hear this question before I’ve even had my morning coffee. Why my kids assume that meal planning is my first thought of the day is a mystery, especially since I’ve made it abundantly clear that I am done (D-O-N-E, done) with cooking for them.
Let me clarify before you jump to conclusions: I haven’t stopped providing food; I’ve just stopped preparing it for them. Cooking has never been my forte. In my single days, I happily thrived on cereal and frozen pizza. However, once I became a parent, I realized that those days were behind me. I knew I had to step up my game, and for years, I tried my best.
Yet, becoming a mother didn’t magically transform me into a culinary expert. As a working mom, I searched for easy, kid-friendly recipes online, experimenting with freezer meals, slow cookers, and meal rotations. I even solicited my kids’ opinions and involved them in cooking.
Despite my efforts, dinnertime turned increasingly chaotic as our schedules became busier. And on the rare occasions I attempted a new recipe, it often ended in disaster—either I messed it up, or someone turned up their nose at what I had made.
After years of stressing myself and my family over dinner, I had an enlightening moment. Why was it solely my responsibility to ensure everyone was fed at night? My husband didn’t seem to worry about it, so why had I assumed that cooking was exclusively my job?
Sure, I had taken on that role early in our marriage, but that didn’t mean I had to stick with it. We both worked full-time and neither of us enjoyed cooking. Just because I was the female didn’t mean I was more capable in the kitchen. In fact, one of our sons was a far better cook than I was and actually enjoyed it—an essential ingredient for success.
With teenagers in the house, I realized they were perfectly capable of fending for themselves. They could whip up pasta, macaroni and cheese, and scrambled eggs—everything in my limited cooking repertoire. So, I gathered everyone and announced a significant change: from now on, if I decided to make something for myself, I would happily share it, but if they didn’t want what I was cooking, it was up to them to figure it out.
I committed to keeping the pantry stocked, but I wouldn’t be preparing dedicated meals for them anymore. They still ask, “What’s for dinner?” but now I suspect it’s just a habit. My response? “I don’t know; what’s Dad making?” or “You tell me.”
After all, give a kid a bowl of spaghetti, and they eat for a day. Teach them to boil water, and they eat for a lifetime.
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Ultimately, I found freedom in allowing my family to take responsibility for their meals, and it’s a change that has made our household much more harmonious.