When you have three boys aged 9, 15, and 20, meal planning is less about nutrition and more about survival. If I were to sum it up, feeding my family is like running a restaurant with no menu, picky patrons, and a chef (me) who’s one burnt pancake away from retiring.
Let’s start with the planning. My 9-year-old, Gannon, has the palate of a raccoon. His preferred menu consists of chicken nuggets, french fries, and a complete refusal to acknowledge that vegetables exist. The 15-year-old, Owen, is deep into the “I’m starving but also I don’t like that” phase, which means he’s perpetually hungry yet inexplicably enraged when dinner is lasagna. My 20-year-old, bless him, actually cooks for himself, and I love that he’s independent. But it’s bittersweet because I’d still love to have nice family dinners around the table instead of cooking and eating in shifts like a diner on a tight schedule.
The grocery shopping stage is a spectacle that deserves its own reality show. I enter the store armed with a list that could double as a scroll from Game of Thrones. There are nuggets for Gannon, 15 bags of chips for Owen, and bulk chicken breasts and protein powder for Dawson. Add in my own sad little section—kale and a box of tea I’ll forget about until next month—and you’ve got a cart that confuses both the cashier and my wallet. By the time I leave, I’ve spent enough to consider taking out a second mortgage.
Then comes the real chaos: meal prep. The kitchen transforms into a war zone where no pan is left unscathed, and my patience simmers alongside the spaghetti sauce. I’m simultaneously grilling chicken, boiling pasta, and negotiating with Gannon to try one—just one—green bean. Owen is raiding the pantry for a pre-dinner snack, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him. Dawson is in the background whipping up his own elaborate meal that smells amazing and makes me briefly question if I should just let him cook for all of us.
When dinner is finally served—at least for those who haven’t already eaten—you’d think there would be peace, but no. Gannon declares the chicken too “chicken-y,” Owen pokes suspiciously at the sauce like it might bite him, and I’m left sitting alone at the table with my kale, dreaming of a world where we could all eat together without complaint.
And don’t even get me started on the cleanup. By the end of the night, my kitchen looks like it hosted a food fight. I’m left scrubbing pans and vowing to simplify next time—which we all know is a lie.
So, here’s to all the exhausted parents out there who feel like short-order cooks in their own homes. Feeding three boys isn’t just a task; it’s an extreme sport. And while I dream of peaceful family dinners, I’m learning to appreciate the chaos—and my oldest’s cooking skills—for what they are.
Pass the wine. And maybe a protein shake for the big one.
Hey Dana Jane 