Why I Hate Myself for Making 8 PM Dinners

The Shame of the Late Dinner

It’s true. By the time I remembered to take out the chicken to defrost, the day was basically already over. And yes, I put it in water on the counter. Judge me later. One of my specialties in this house is something my kids lovingly call “Ten O’Clock Chicken.” I should probably be more concerned that this is one of my most delicious recipes. And no, it is not healthy.

And then I get worried. Because it is late. Because they are eating late. Because I know better. So I tell them to stay up a little longer so they can digest. They tell me they did not eat anything all day, yet when I pack them lunch, they complain and want school food.

I work from home, so I am busy watching them buzz around me, back and forth, sometimes doing homework, sometimes needing help, sometimes just scrolling through a device pretending to be productive. I want to be present and perfect and on top of everything. But sometimes I just cannot. And dinner at 8 PM becomes this symbol of how I am falling short. Cooking dinner so late feels like proof that I did not prep enough, that I did not care enough about doing things the right way. That I missed something essential. That motherhood and entrepreneurship should be balanced better than this.

The Tata Standard

Tata, my great-grandmother, was always up before everyone. The smell of coffee would fill the air while farina cooked on the stove. Lunches were already made by the time she called out that it was time to go. While my mom was at work, Tata stayed home sweeping, cleaning, cooking, organizing—moving nonstop until 3 p.m., when she paused to pray. Dinner was always ready by the time we came home from school.

The rule was that you had to take off your school clothes and put on play clothes so you wouldn’t ruin the nice clothes, though I never listened. And if we got hungry later, there was always something sweet waiting in the fridge: rice pudding, flan, or Jell-O.

Tata with Santa and a Christmas Elf

The Rebellion (Even When I Was Little)

I was her favorite, more than my mother, more than my sister (who was mischievous and a little attention seeking). I was the white little cherub who could do no wrong, always spoiled with seconds and every bit of attention.

Maybe without realizing it then, I watched how she treated my sister as a blueprint for what not to become. As a tiny act of rebellion wrapped in innocence and long black hair, I pushed back against the rules she enforced with such certainty.

Tata believed thunder could come into the house and electrocute you, so she’d shut off every light and the AC the second the sky growled, and there I was, sitting at the window waiting for lightning like it was a fireworks show. She insisted socks were the only barrier between me and a deadly illness, but I’d sneak outside barefoot with wet hair, daring the chill to come for me. And when she prayed loudly in the living room half love, half fear, I would roll my eyes, convinced the universe didn’t need such dramatic reminders.

Even then, even as a child being served the biggest bowl of flan, something in me thought: I know better. And maybe this is where the story of my motherhood really begins.

My Uncle Kiko, Alex, Tata, & Me

The Motherhood Math

There are days, maybe not today, but definitely days, when I feel like a god-awful human and nothing like Tata modeled. Laundry still in the dryer all week. Kids pulling out mismatched outfits that technically are clean but absolutely scream chaos. Little missteps stacking up until they feel like full-blown character flaws.

I start assuming they are not learning enough, not doing enough, not eating healthy enough, not building the skills they need for life, and that it all comes back to me. My failures. My lack of structure. My 8 PM dinners.

But here is the thing: I do know better. If I look closer, they do have clean clothes, even if they are warm from the dryer instead of folded neatly in drawers. They do have a place of their own with friends waiting. They are learning how to manage their own time and interests without me dictating every second. They are becoming autonomous humans who still have the safety net of a mom who works hard and loves them loudly.

Tata, Mommy, Alex and Me

The Rewrite

And here’s the truth I’ve been slow to admit: maybe the late dinners, the relaxed rules, the laughter at 9 PM are not failures, maybe they are the rebellion. The healing. The rewriting of love.

My home isn’t run by fear or superstition. My kids don’t have to earn dessert by being perfect. They are allowed to grow without learning that love has a favorite.

We have food on the table, even if it defrosted at 8 PM. Even if Ten O’Clock Chicken makes another proud appearance. By the time it is done, the kids are sitting around the kitchen talking to me, asking questions, telling stories, learning how to cook, and being present in a way that is real.

That is quality time. That is love.

So while I know it is not the best way, while I know starting dinner at 8 PM is not the gold-medal version of motherhood, it is still okay. It counts. It is enough. Dinner at 8 PM does not mean I am failing. It means I am human. A human who is raising humans. A mother who is choosing love over perfection.

🍗 Ten O’Clock Chicken: The Recipe No One Asked For

Ingredients

1 cup cornstarch, 1 cup flour, adobo seasoning (to taste), black pepper (to taste), 1 egg, 1 lb chicken breast or tenders cut into bite-size pieces, oil for shallow frying, sesame seeds for garnish.

Gochujang Sauce

2 tbsp gochujang paste, 1 tbsp soy sauce, 1 tbsp rice wine vinegar, 2–3 tbsp water, 1–2 tsp honey (to taste).

Instructions

Mix chicken with egg and adobo. Let sit 15 minutes (enough time to panic-clean something). Combine cornstarch, flour, and pepper, and coat the chicken thoroughly. Heat oil in a pan and shallow fry until golden and crispy. In a separate pan, whisk sauce ingredients until slightly thickened. Toss chicken in the sauce and garnish with sesame seeds. Serve with rice or lettuce cups, and bask in the glow of children who suddenly “remember” they’re starving.