Who Knew Dinnertime Could Suck So Hard: And Other Things They Don't Tell You Before You Become a Parent

Last night's dinner came courtesy of a favorite food blog, Half Baked Harvest. The reception at the dinner table was, as my Nanni used to say in regard to her state of existence, Fair to Middling. 10-year-old ate it and 7-year-old did not. This was expected, as 7 has been carrying on a food fight with me since he was 18 months old — or seven full years if you count breastfeeding difficulties. (I'm learning that each phase of motherhood comes with its own unique struggle and that each struggle has a half-life of at least five years.)

For a long time, I believed this food fight was part of a war of attrition, but it appears 7 intends to stay the course. No surprise. Both of my children are headstrong to the teeth. As much as it exasperates me on the daily — since our days are full of Reasons I Need Them to Cooperate — it also gives me hope that eventually they'll learn to harness their power for good and not evil, aka be adults who can handle disappointment, rejection, and challenges because they are too resilient for anything less.

I found this recipe over the weekend when, as most weekends, I made a menu for the week ahead. I try to keep it simple, but being Who I Am, that's a tall order for a short girl. So each weekend, I spend an hour or so combing the internet, the annals of my memory, and my recipe box for dinners that, if they could talk, would say, "Hey there, Sexy Home Chef, I'm reasonably healthy and at least one of your children will not make barf sounds or become a wet noodle of sadness upon meeting me."

Given the dinnertime difficulties we've had for many years or perhaps AN ETERNITY, my children's motto is Junk Food Rules, Mom's Food Drools. It makes me wonder if I'm being punished for bucking the norm or if these healthy food-blogger moms I follow are full of absolute shit when they share photos of beautiful box lunches packed with whole foods that we're supposed to believe their crunchy children eat without protest.

I exposed both of my kids early on to a plethora of flavors and textures. I talked about why it's important to eat healthy food. I allowed all the usual suspects — pizza, sweets, chips, etc. — on holidays, dinners out, and in moderation in our home. Still, when I try to keep it healthy, I am met with resistance matching the fury of a crazed Capitol riot.

On weeknights, dinnertime is decidedly Not My Forte. I'm a decent cook, but I'm no longer the multitasker I once was. I'm usually rushed. Cooking in a tiny kitchen, like 4 square feet, with dogs underfoot and children playing "Mamma I Need..." on repeat. Juggling one dinner for Most of Us and another dinner for the Rest of Us (a practice I have fought for years, so please, spare the advice about refusing to be a short-order cook). Dishes piling up. Me Time dying a quick death. (Contrary to popular belief, working from home, while super awesome, is not the same as Me Time.)

Each night I wonder, Is it just me or would any woman feel slightly crazy amidst this madness? I'm pretty sure it's the latter, although the former doesn't help seeing as compartmentalization is also Not My Forte.

Anyway. I enjoy Tieghan from Half Baked Harvest's blog. I enjoy cooking. I enjoy my dogs. My little home. My kids. I don't enjoy all of them all at once on weekday evenings. Rather than punish myself for channeling Gary Busey (do I need a new reference? Is that aging me?) at dinnertime, I endeavor to transcend these harried moments and remember I'm still a good mom and a fun person that people like to be around. My father once told me in a Mother's Day card, "You are a conscientious mother," a huge compliment in my book; however, if you too are conscientious, you know it comes with baggage, as in Perpetual Awareness of Everything.

It's not easy being me. Or being you. All we can do is our best and forgive ourselves for feeling as if we've fallen short, over and over.

Tonight I'm making another recipe from the blog, including homemade beer bread. I might even eat a slice and forgive myself the empty carbs. To all my fellow home chefs, I send you a hug and the other half of the sour beer I won't finish this eve.