I need better motivation than this...

After one take-out dinner too many, I started cooking again last week. You'd think my son would be overjoyed at the prospect of so many lovingly-prepared homemade dinners, but you would be wrong.

The reasons I like and hate cooking for Mark are exactly the same: he's dead honest. If he likes something, I know it. If he doesn't, I know it, too. I also know when cleans his plate  just because he's hungry, not because he loves the food. When I ask, "How was it?" he answers with a side-turned hand wave and an "Eh..."

I don't mind the critiques. The only thing that really irritates me is when I asked for menu ideas and he shrugged.

"If you don't give input on the menu, you can't complain about the meal," I warned him.

"But what if it's really bad?" he asked.

"We aren't there yet," I said. "All I'm doing now is taking suggestions."

The week did not go great. I made a slow-cooker lasagna (bad, for the second time--I'm tossing that recipe); steak and potatoes (not a great cut of meat); Chinese chicken salad (thumbs-up, but this one's always a winner); and butternut squash soup (amazing!). I think the soup was the best thing I made--it was so good I ate it two nights in a row.

Mark, however, offered a different opinion.

"It looks like baby food," he observed.

"It's not baby food!" I answered, defensively. "It's soup. And it's GOOD. I roasted this squash for an hour and a half--it's AWESOME."

He reluctantly tried a spoonful, passing the smallest amount he could through his lips.

"It's not really a soup," he said. "It's more like a sauce."

I pulled my soup bowl back. "It's not a sauce," I groused. "It's soup. And it's good."

He patted my shoulder condescendingly. "It's okay," he said, gently. But he couldn't stop himself, and added, "For a sauce..."

This was my fifth night (in a row!) of cooking, and I was grumpy. I'd made breakfasts, I'd made lunches, and I'd certainly made dinners, all for an unappreciative audience. I was tired of measuring, cooking, and washing dishes, and I was tired of the not-helpful feedback.

"You're on your own for dinner," I told the little food critic. "Eat whatever you can make."

I knew that would make him happy; what I didn't expect was outright glee. This was what he chose:

"I'm having tuna!" he said. "And a croissant." He smacked his lips in anticipation.

He brought his meal to the table. I watched, waiting for him to stuff the croissant with tuna. Instead, he ate the two separately.

"You're not making a sandwich?" I asked.

"No, I like tuna right out of the bowl," he answered. He smiled, then he finished it off, occasionally biting into the croissant.

And there you have it. That right there is why I don't cook--because my kid loves canned fish and Costco croissants. He prefers a de-constructed tuna sandwich to anything I actually cook.

I watched him, smiling and happily enjoying his dinner, and I thought, how can I possibly compete with that?