I used to stress over my role as a short-order cook. Like, really stress. But somewhere along the way, I waved the white flag and reframed it: these are actual life skills. Menu planning. Negotiation. Crisis management at 5:42 p.m. Honestly? I’m running a very small, very loud diner.
One thing my mom always told me—and she was right, of course—is that just when you think you’ve mastered one stage of parenting, your kids evolve and hand you an entirely new challenge. So for now, I’ve decided to let my kids be picky eaters.
Then there are those families. You know the ones. Everyone sits around the table, happily digging into a beautiful, balanced dinner. There’s kale. There are cauliflower tots. Dessert is an apple because they “just love fruit.”
Those families make me absolutely unhinged. Not because I’m mean—but because I’m jealous. And also slightly suspicious.
I love to cook. I want adventurous eaters. At five years old, I was downing buckets of steamers. People stared. My mom swears I was a culinary prodigy. Then—plot twist—I became the Pasta Princess. I once cried on vacation because my pasta arrived with parsley on top. I knew the waiter had taken it back, flicked the parsley off, and returned it, pretending it was new. I wasn’t buying it.
Here’s the thing that really messes with your head: my kids used to eat everything.
I owned the Beaba. I steamed fresh, organic fruits and veggies daily. I was out here pureeing amaranth like it was my job. I bought cookbooks like Weelicious, fully convinced my kids would grow up to be tiny food critics. I was feeling very “Mom of the Year.”
And then… around age three? The inspection phase began.
Suddenly, food was analyzed, judged, and rejected on sight. Something they loved yesterday was deeply offensive today. The same kid who once ate steamed pears and quinoa was now offended by the shape of a noodle. It was humbling.
So I’ve chosen peace.
Right now, that peace looks like boxed mac and cheese. And honestly, it has to be better than the canned meatballs and SpaghettiOs I survived on. They eat frozen chicken tenders too—but they’re organic and coconut-crusted, so I tell myself that counts. They also eat Little Bites, but only the limited-edition pumpkin ones. Please don’t judge me. I’ve made all of this from scratch. They prefer the box. Loudly.
Taco night, however, is our win. A full-family meal where everyone eats the same thing?
