Recently, I found myself engulfed in an unexpected wave of frustration. It began subtly in the morning, but as the day progressed, it intensified. After brewing my morning coffee, I decided to thaw some chicken from the freezer. In doing so, I felt I had made a commitment—not just to the chicken, but to the entire dinner scenario that awaited me later. Even before breakfast, dinner was already looming large in my mind, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of irritation toward it.
Throughout the day, that chicken sat there, slowly thawing, almost mocking me. “Remember, you planned chicken cordon bleu for dinner. Your child has been eagerly anticipating it all week. You’ll need to start prepping me soon!” it seemed to say. I just wanted some quiet time to read or take a nap, but instead, the pressure mounted.
By around 4 p.m., I realized I needed to express these feelings, so I reached out to my friend, Jamie.
Me: “I’m feeling disproportionately angry at dinner right now.”
Jamie: “I’m here for you! What’s bothering you?”
Me: “Dinner is so demanding. It never prepares itself!”
Jamie: “Totally ridiculous.”
Me: “I used to enjoy cooking. It was even mentioned in my bio at my first pediatric office.”
Jamie: “Haha! What would it say now? Let me guess: ‘In her free time, Taylor enjoys running, making sarcastic remarks, and dodging her children.’”
Me: “Exactly!”
Jamie: “I get it, Taylor. I really do.”
That exchange validated my feelings, prompting me to reflect on my complicated emotions surrounding dinner. Once upon a time, I genuinely liked to cook. I watched cooking shows, tried new recipes, and prepared meals from scratch. But then I had kids.
There’s nothing quite like the experience of spending an hour preparing a meal only to have the children protest at the table. I don’t cater to picky eaters, yet somehow, they still manage to leave the table without eating, preferring to go to bed hungry rather than risk the “dangers” of a well-prepared meal.
If they do eat, it often leads to the dreaded dessert negotiation. My daughter frequently asks, “How much do I have to eat to get dessert?” To which I respond, “All of it.” Her next move? Taking the smallest bite possible and asking if she can have dessert now.
At this stage of my parenting journey, I feel defeated and exhausted by the entire dinner routine. With a husband who works from home, I only face this culinary challenge twice a week. You would think that would ease my burden, but it hasn’t improved my fraught relationship with dinner at all. I feel dinner needs to accept some responsibility for the tension.
Dinner is consistently inconsiderate, arriving at the most chaotic time of day—between 5 and 7 p.m., when my children are typically at their loudest. I have yet to find a way to reschedule their meltdowns to a different time, so it would be nice if dinner could accommodate my situation better.
Moreover, dinner is time-consuming. The planning, shopping, preparing, cooking, and cleaning can disrupt my entire schedule, especially if I aim to eat healthily. And let’s not even mention how long it takes a child to eat a mere quarter cup of pasta.
This cycle of dinner preparation feels endless. Each day brings the expectation of a home-cooked meal, and with every meal, my family voices their hunger. It’s as if I can’t pretend that I wasn’t planning to serve snacks instead of dinner and hope they wouldn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm.
Dinner has become one of the most stressful and chaotic times of day—a whirlwind of complaints, interruptions, and relentless questions. I genuinely feel the need for a break from it all. Perhaps a few weeks of simple, easy meals in front of the TV would provide the space I need.
I discussed my feelings with my husband, who encouraged me to focus on the positives that come with family dinners. I find myself wondering whose side he’s on.
Maybe, just maybe, dinner and I can find a way to coexist peacefully in the future, but I’m not holding my breath.