Parenting During Menopause (part 2)

My grandma used to tell me having kids killed any motivation she had in the kitchen. I thought she was joking until I had a few of my own and got a decade worth of complaints and seemingly never satisfied non-paying customers. What used to be one of my favorite hobbies - trying new recipes and cultural dishes - quickly deteriorated to become one of my least favorite tasks.

Since I was a kid I loved all things about cooking and baking. I shadowed grandmas, farmer’s wives, scoured cookbooks, and even took a crack at some of my own homemade adventures. I grew up in the Midwest - where 4H and bake-offs were the pioneers of Master Chefs. Besides, I was a latchkey kid with a lot of time on my hands and more responsibilities like making family dinners 5+ nights a week than most kids my age.

I’ve grown leaps and bounds with my ninja skills in the kitchen.

My dad was a picky eater and complained on a regular about anything that wasn’t meat and potatoes, so I probably shouldn’t be so offended by a few whiny kids. Yet, with a husband that’s been so supportive, grateful, and complimentary for anything I’ve made, I’ve grown leaps and bounds with my ninja skills in the kitchen.

I’m no chef or have aspiring goals to compete in a national cook-off or anything, but I’m notorious for making all baked goods from scratch, could compete with MacGyver when it comes to throwing something together with only a few ingredients, and have several signature dishes that friends and fam demand seconds and recipes.

Which brings me to my shameless funny:

Kitchen bombs. You know what I’m talking about - those times when you feel fully confident in a meal you’ve made until you taste it and it’s not just subpar, it’s disgusting.

In my husband and my earlier years, I had several of these ego adjustments. One of my favorite memories is when we were in college and he’d just moved into his apartment. I decided to make him a yummy chicken and rice casserole I’d made for years. It was simple: chicken breast, rice, broccoli, onion, garlic, spices, and a can of cream of mushroom soup (or homemade if I had the time). Well, this particular day I went with the can and used the ingredients my husband had on hand, which in regards to the rice, was a bag of jasmine rice - not the minute rice I’d grown up with.

That younger version of me desperately wanted to be validated for her work. She wanted her family and friends to love her cooking.

You can probably guess where this disaster went. What normally took 40 min in the oven, took 2+ hours and more cups of water than I was used to, resulting in more rice than I thought I’d measured and ultimately an inedible shitty meal.

I sat on his stoop and cried, certain he’d leave or yell at me for wasting his food.

That younger, fearful version of me was terrified of abandonment, and desperately wanted to please and be validated for her work. She wanted her family and friends to love her meals. At least as much as she loved making them.

I’d hit my limit. What I’d thought was a slam dunk turned into a blow out.

Fast forward nearly two decades, many more flops and less tears, and I’m 38, entering my menopause rhapsody. Each meal with the kids felt like a warzone.

“Gross.”

“Can I have something else?”

“Do I have to eat this?”

At our house we’ve always had 2 rules when it comes to mealtime:

1. You don’t have to like it but you always have to try it.

2. Mommy is not a short-order cook therefore you eat at least some of this or nothing at all. (This has been sometimes amended to “make your own pb&j or cereal” as a last resort)

I’d hit my limit after making a family favorite and getting slammed instead of praised. It was grilled BBQ chicken breasts, roasted broccoli, rice (ironically jasmine but properly prepared this time and with way better flavor), and sliced apples. How in the hell could these kids find something to bitch about? I hadn’t done anything different.

What I’d thought was a slam dunk turned into a blow out. Not to mention my Awakening fused with menopausal hormones - mood swings, insomnia, and anxiety - made the perfect storm.

Then it occurred to me: with an 8, 5, and 2 year old whining about their homemade meals, I needed to flip the script. In some parts of the world, kids their ages were making meals for their entire families - I was 9 when I’d started, so my oldest wasn’t too far off.

Santa decided to get creative and got them a subscription to a kid-friendly cooking box, called Raddish Kids.

For the next two years, the kids learned to chop, dice, whisk, mix, and fold all kinds of flavors. They made soups, gravies, cupcakes. They made Swedish, Italian, Thai and Moroccan. And I supervised, though said little when they made a mistake and let them learn from what happens to illy mixed cake batter, baking soda instead of baking powder, and measuring errors for salt.

For the most part the older two loved it. They argued like an old married couple in the kitchen, but still usually managed to pull together some pretty great meals. Each month a new box, a new challenge, a new lesson, and I got off the hook for at least one meal.

They stopped getting Raddish boxes over a year ago. We had 72 recipes under their belt and a steady monthly rotation of the kids selecting and preparing a family meal.

Parenting during midlife is hard. And Parenting during menopause can be harder.

Recently, I was watching my kids make dinner. I sat at the counter doing a word search while the older two traded duties like trained line cooks and the 4 year old “supervised.” It occurred to me then that the mood swings and anxiety, the night sweats and insomnia had actually done me a favor.

While in my younger years my fragile ego couldn’t bare to take the criticisms, my midlife awakening drew a line and dared anyone to cross it. I stopped giving a shit about my kids’ complaints and started standing up for myself by giving them the baton - teaching them to cook for themselves and see how even when a meal is subpar, when you’ve put in all that time and sweat, it’s still usually better than the PB&J or bowl of cereal.

Parenting during midlife is hard. Parenting during menopause can be harder. But finding the silver lining in the two sometimes has its advantages too.

Now, I fully understand my grandma’s relationship with cooking. My kids still complain from time to time, and Im not quite as stoked to tie on the apron. But both happen less often. Maybe it’s the occasional forced labor. Or maybe it’s just they’d prefer to cook for themselves.

Whatever their reasons, mine are clear: Menopause and midlife got no time for unnecessary trips to the guillotine. Limits are set for a reasons - once hit it’s time for action and change.

In the kitchen, and at midlife I did both.

The cook went on strike, and unhappy patrons started cooking.

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