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Drastic situations often call for equally drastic responses. My children’s bewildered reactions ranged from “You can’t be serious!” to “What’s going on?” as they stared at the sign I had hung on our fridge. Watching the delightful chaos unfold, I felt an exhilarating sense of freedom.
While I’ve often daydreamed of posting a sign that says “Mom’s off on a grand adventure” — perhaps hiking the Pacific Crest Trail with nothing but a backpack — that wasn’t quite the message I sent out that day. Who hasn’t fantasized about escaping? That Monday, I decided to close my kitchen and embrace the relief that followed.
I cherish the two to three evenings each week when we gather as a family to savor a meal that I’ve lovingly prepared. Yet, on the other nights, we struggle to grab sandwiches in the car as we dash off to various kids’ sports events. I jokingly refer to that meal as “slop on a shingle.” Our dinner gatherings usually involve sharing highs and lows, exchanging compliments, and practicing good manners — a picture-perfect family scene that has recently become more of a figment of my imagination.
Trying to enforce polite dining etiquette has become my personal challenge in this bustling household of six. It’s hard to believe how often our family meals devolve into utter hilarity. Dinner typically starts with siblings interrupting one another as they take turns sharing their day; then, someone lets out a loud noise (from one end or the other), proudly claiming they tried to hold it in. Another child inevitably yells, “Who’s serving the milk tonight?” while the designated milk server struts to the fridge, either whining or dancing for attention. And without fail, amidst the chaos, one of the boys has to excuse himself to “take care of business.” Perfect timing, right?
My spouse and I have experimented with everything from letting them leave the table immediately to rotating who speaks. Some of the consequences have included skipping dinner and extra chores to give me a break. Despite our exhaustion as parents, we attempted every “Parenting with Love and Logic” strategy, but that particular evening fell flat.
I distinctly remember that Sunday when spaghetti was on the menu, and my husband and I demonstrated the proper technique for twirling spaghetti on a fork. Our four children dove in with abandon (picture Ralphie from A Christmas Story), as we warned them they’d never get dates in high school with such table manners. They didn’t seem to care! Regardless, we tried our best to mold them into polite adults. I’ll admit, it was hard not to laugh as they hilariously slurped the spaghetti while my youngest showed off his “floss dance” after being excused to serve milk.
My husband and I exchanged playful glances, daring each other to keep a straight face while our youngest displayed his wild dance moves. I was torn between laughter and frustration at our apparent parenting failure. Sensing my distress, my husband called an end to dinner, and I took off for a long walk in the woods. I thought I wouldn’t return until the kids had done the dishes or at least made it through college. Looking back, I wish I had taken the chance to embark on that Pacific Crest Trail adventure.
The next morning, the sign read: “Mom’s Kitchen Closed Until Further Notice.” I was officially on strike due to their unappetizing dinner behavior, all while looking as carefree as the woman on the sign. “You’re not making lunches?” chimed my spoiled elementary-age kids. My older two, thinking they were exempt, confidently packed their own lunches, fully unaware of what was coming.
It wasn’t until dinner rolled around that the reality of their situation hit. “What’s for dinner?” my ravenous sons asked. “Not a clue!” I replied. “There’s nothing to eat!” exclaimed my daughter, to which I simply said, “Tough luck!” My 10-year-old took the opportunity to craft his “famous” lunchmeat sandwich, while my 7-year-old begged my 12-year-old to show him how to make oatmeal.
I found immense joy in watching the teamwork unfold while I sipped a glass of cabernet and read the newspaper. My daughter whipped up a gourmet egg sandwich with the confidence of a seasoned chef trying to outdo me. No one seemed bothered by the lack of my cooking, which made me question whether I needed to rethink my strategy.
How many days could they survive on oatmeal? I wondered, as my youngest pleaded for a McDonald’s run — using his own money, of course. By Day 3, they were weary of oatmeal and sandwiches and resorted to cereal. While I’m no culinary expert (I reluctantly took over cooking for the kids’ nutrition’s sake), I typically offer a variety of meals.
My husband, who could easily live on junk food, was the most impacted, as he lacked the energy to prepare anything nutritious. “Tell the kids how much you miss my cooking,” I teased, hoping to get him more involved. I strategically let them see me making a meal, leaving out the ingredients so they could fend for themselves. By the end of the week, they were even grilling their own Reuben sandwiches.
Honestly, I could have kept this up for a month. Fortunately for the kids, our cousin came to visit on Saturday. Rather than let him starve, I challenged the kids to display proper behavior during the family dinner I had prepared for our guest. Aside from their inability to say grace (wouldn’t you know, our cousin is a senior minister), they managed to each express what they were thankful for.
That evening was filled with laughter and grace, with no hitting, farting, or dancing. I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
After a week, I took down the sign. I like to think it left a lasting mark. My husband has returned to his co-parenting weight, the kids now help with Sunday meals, and I’ve regained a sense of peace and respect. Still, I can’t help but dream of a vacation.
In summary, taking a step back from meal preparation led to unexpected lessons in responsibility for my children, and a much-needed break for me. Sometimes, it takes a bold move to shake things up and bring about positive changes in the family dynamic.