What I Learned When I Cooked Way Too Much For My Kid’s Freshman Year
Last Saturday, I stacked my 15th labeled tupperware container in my daughter Lila’s 2-square-foot dorm mini fridge and wiped a smudge of pasta sauce off the plastic door. Lila leaned against the linoleum counter, one AirPod in, nodding half-heartedly at my reminder to freeze the meatloaf if she didn’t eat it in three days. “Mom,” she said, “you know I don’t actually cook, right?”
I’d started the big batch cook six months earlier, the day after she got her acceptance letter to the out-of-state state school she’d wanted since eighth grade. Every other Sunday, I’d add two or three portions of her favorite meals to our deep freezer after Sunday dinner. I’d heard so many other parents at soccer practice talking about it: kids living on energy drinks and expired takeout, ending up with stomach bugs that knocked them out midterms, wasting money on food they throw out. I thought I was being smart. I’d bought a new set of microwave-safe tupperware from Target, labeled each lid with heating instructions and an expiration date in bold Sharpie. I made lasagna, turkey meatballs, lemon garlic chicken, even her favorite chocolate chip cookie dough portioned into frozen balls. By move-in week, I had 23 portions ready, enough to feed her for a full month while she figured out classes, the dining hall schedule, and where the closest grocery store was. We only fit 15 in the car.
The drive home from campus was four hours, and the whole way I couldn’t stop turning the question over in my head: Did I cook all this for Lila, or did I cook this for me? I’d spent the whole year leading up to move-in feeling a constant low hum of anxiety. What if she forgot to wear a raincoat to class? What if she didn’t know how to unclog a drain? What if she got lonely and didn’t call anyone? Cooking was the only thing that made that hum quiet down. If I was stirring pasta or wrapping portions in foil, I wasn’t just sitting on the couch worrying about how much our daily routine was going to change. That’s when the question hit me: did I cook myself through the lead-up to freshman year, more than I cooked for her?
A week after move-in, I got my answer in a FaceTime call. Lila was standing in front of the mini fridge, holding my slightly wilted tupperware of chicken noodle soup. Her roommate had forgotten to close the fridge all the way when she left for a Friday afternoon soccer game, and everything had thawed. She had to throw almost all of it out. I felt my chest tighten for half a second, ready to offer to order her a grocery delivery right then, before she even finished talking. But she just laughed. “It’s fine,” she said. “I went to the dining hall for lunch yesterday, then my roommate and I walked to the grocery store down the street last night. We bought spaghetti and sauce and garlic bread. I overcooked the pasta so it was mushy, but we ate it anyway while we watched that show you like. It was fun.”
I ran into my neighbor Sue, who teaches 12th grade, the next day when I was walking the dog. I told her the whole story, and she nodded like she’d seen it a hundred times. She said most seniors she sees have parents who do almost everything for them the last semester before college, because it’s hard to let go. Parents fill out the FAFSA details, pack the whole dorm, even do their laundry the last few weeks, all because it feels easier than watching them fumble. But the fumbling is the point, she said. When they mess up a meal at 18, away from home, it’s not a disaster—it’s practice.
That stuck with me. I’d always thought the point of prepping for college was to make it smooth. But what I’ve realized is that smooth doesn’t help them learn. Here’s what I’d tell any parent who’s in that lead-up now, from what I lived: First, instead of spending months pre-making meals for their fridge, do one full practice run with them one weekend before move-in. Let them pick three meals they like, go to the grocery store with them, let them compare prices, pick out produce, check expiration dates, and cook the whole thing themselves. You only step in if they ask for help. Don’t correct how they chop onions, don’t redo the seasoning if it’s off. If it’s bad, you eat it anyway. It’s a couple hours of your time, and it teaches them way more than 23 pre-made portions ever could. Second, if you still have that urge to do something to ease your own worry (like I did), put together a small notebook with your go-to recipes written out, with little notes like “add extra parmesan” instead of pre-making all the food. It takes up no space in their car, and they can use it whenever they want, instead of throwing out your hard work when the fridge breaks. Third, when they call or text to say they messed something up, don’t jump in to fix it. Just say “that sucks” and ask them what they’re planning to do next. Nine times out of ten, they’ve already figured it out before they even call you.
I still have eight portions of meatloaf in my deep freezer at home, the ones that didn’t fit in the car for move-in. I’ll eat them over the next month, no waste. Last night, Lila sent me a blurry photo of a plate of cookies she baked in her dorm’s shared oven. They’re lumpy, half the edges are burnt black, and one is missing a chunk where she dropped it on the counter. The caption says “Only set off the smoke alarm once. First win.” I texted back “proud of you” and closed my phone.
Some days I still catch myself opening the grocery delivery website, typing in her campus address, ready to send her a week of groceries. I always close the tab. She’s doing fine. Freshman year isn’t something I can cook for her, anyway. It’s something she has to work through on her own. That doesn’t make the waiting easier, but it’s the truth of it. I’m still learning to be okay with that.
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