There was a time when I enjoyed cooking. It was a creative act that was fulfilling in it’s execution and in it’s enjoyment by others. That time is gone.

Now, with Quinn’s new school and new routine, we’ve joined the ranks of so many other parents on the planet. I’m up at 6:30 to start the mad rush out the front door. This delicately balanced routine includes showering first — the only way other than having coffee brought to me in bed, (which isn’t going to happen,) that I can wake up that early — followed by the juggle of Thor and I taking turns getting Quinn up, fed and dressed. Then I make Quinn’s lunch, do a quick email check and pack up my laptop. I stand in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear and kick myself for not doing this the night before. I blow-dry my hair when I can eek out the time. Then we get shoes and jackets on and get loaded up in the car. Forget about breakfast and coffee for Thor and I. I’ve realized that just isn’t in the cards. The breakfast I can live without until I get to the office and pour a bowl of cereal, but walking out the front door with a caffeine-free body just isn’t natural.

The morning rush is followed by a fun and invigorating day at the office helping to build the company I love. It includes normal office stuff — meetings, emails, IMs, phone calls, lunches, coffee breaks, checking and moving my car every few hours. Then I’m out the door and rushing to pick Quinn up by 6, but trying to get there earlier so he’s not THAT kid who’s sitting alone with the last teacher left on the otherwise deserted playground.

By the time we’re home I have zero energy and motivation left for even thinking about what to prepare for dinner much less preparing it. And most of the time the selection of food in the house with which to prepare a meal is uninspiring because I’ve had no time to grocery shop.

How do parents do this? When I wasn’t working as much — and particularly when I was working from home — I was so much more motivated to cook. And I had the time. Now I get home and all I want to do is call the Thai restaurant up the street and plop down in front of the telly.

And we live in a city full of great — and often cheap — food. So is it okay to NOT cook most nights? I have to admit I feel guilty about it. Like somehow a home-cooked meal is a requisite part of “family values”. That I’m depriving my child of some key ingredient in the shaping of his delicate psyche.

But at least he’s not eating McDonald’s every night. Fastfood is a once every couple of months occurence in our family. He’s getting a lot of variety in his diet — Thai, Chinese, Mediterranean, Sushi, Peruvian — so that’s a good thing, right?