I feed my kids breakfast for dinner more often than I’d like to admit. Sometimes breakfast for dinner means scrambled eggs and toast and maybe even steamed green beans. Mostly, though, it’s the same cereal they had for breakfast, and I don’t always ask more than once if they want fruit or yogurt with it.
Do you know what kind of a mother I am on those nights? A relaxed mother. Relaxed because I have not had to cook at the same time as I supervise homework and piano practice and play a board game. I’m not setting the table at the same time as being a referee for the hockey in the basement or the fighting on the stairs. I am not doing dishes while the momentary peace that reigned around the dinner table falls to pieces in the post-dinner scramble of bathsbooksbed. I can read with one or even two children right up until “dinner time” and I can resume reading five seconds after “dinner” is done. No child has ever complained about breakfast for dinner. The guilt I feel about not feeding them a cooked dinner is never more than fleeting.
Of course, the kids could help cook, set the table and wash the dishes. And they do. And they like to cook and make their own food. But you know how it is: some nights it’s easier to do it all myself, and some nights doing it all myself is a mistake and I resent it. Breakfasts for dinner cuts all of that out.
Breakfast for dinner is a regular sin in my house, but, like all the best sins, it’s one for which I feel absolutely no regret.