Sometimes, everyone is better off when mom goes on strike.
My mother put dinner on the table five or six nights a week when I was growing up, complete with salad and side dishes and place mats and ironed cloth napkins. For many years, I struggled to emulate my mom’s domestic achievement—even before I had kids. But I have been broken down since I started to attempt to feed three people other than myself, two of whom are children and one of whom is as picky as a child.
