The other day, my friend Gemma texted me…

“Sometimes I feel bad that I’m not a good cook,” she wrote. “I never make big family meals from scratch. I am not skilled in the domestic arts. Does that make me a bad mummy y/n”

Spoiler: the answer is definitely not. But I do understand her feelings. Before having kids, I envisioned sitting down for dinner together, Norman Rockwell style, and sharing our hopes and dreams while breaking bread. But honestly? We didn’t have regular sit-down family dinners until Toby was around 10, and we still eat at the table together only a few times a week.

And yet.

While I’m a terrible cook, I crush it at being a mom.

When I think about my children leaving the nest and looking back on their childhoods, I know they won’t think fondly of beautiful homemade meals because I did not serve many. We eat simply, and pizza features regularly. But there are SO MANY BEAUTIFUL THINGS they will remember: back rubs and foot rubs and long talks in bed; playing Uno and Guess Who and M.A.S.H.; riding bikes and taking sneaky walks at night. We watched all of Full House and Fuller House and wrote fan letters to the cast. We eat popsicles on the stoop, and I’ve taught them how to apologize genuinely and mingle at parties. Most of all, they know that there is nothing in this entire universe that they could ever do or say that would make me stop loving them with my whole heart forever.

Anton’s Mother’s Day note from a few years ago: “You’re a good cook L.O.L.”

Sometimes a family’s ritual is dinner at the table, which is wonderful. And sometimes a family’s rituals are other things. It’s a classic good for her, not for me situation. I think of my own parents, who I’ve always loved deeply — neither spent much time in the kitchen when we were growing up.

My dad would make us cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches for dinner. But we then spent hours browsing in bookstores, riding bikes, watching old movies, and ice skating on bumpy Michigan lakes. My dad would weep in the driver’s seat while listening to opera on a cassette tape, and on Sunday mornings he’d read Far Side comics to us, all piled into his bed on Sunday mornings. He gave everyone and everything a nickname (even his favorite sweatshirt was called Red-y), and in the grocery store he’d whistle for us and we’d all come running from the various aisles. He taught us to write condolence notes and trying things you’re scared of and drive stick in a parking lot.

And my mom was famous for fish fingers and tater tots, and we were secret shoppers at Dominos (we’d get free pizza delivery if we filled out a survey afterward). But, most of all, I remember lying in bed talking while she played with my hair; staying up late to watch Mary Tyler Moore reruns together; listening to Bonnie Tyler on repeat in the car; cross country skiing in a square around our suburban backyard at night; showing her my ballet moves one gazillion times; and trusting her to take my joys and fears seriously.

The thing is, it honestly does not matter if you’re a good cook, or how crafty or handy you are, or how many books you read (if any), or if you’re athletic, or whether you’re introverted or extroverted, or if you are [fill in the blank] — if you love your children, you are doing a great job.

I once made pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.

Thoughts? Do you enjoy cooking and making dinners for your crew? Or do you open a box of mac n’ cheese and call it a day? Because either way is amazing.

P.S. The #1 thing I’d tell new parents about family dinner, and my parenting motto.

(Top photo from 2019, the last time I baked a cake from scratch.)