Dinner is Served
by Meilyn Woods
My name is Mom. Sometimes Mama, formerly known as Mommy. I can’t remember what I went by before my belly was consumed in pale stripes that I sometimes trace. My work is never done. There’s always laundry to be folded, boo boos to kiss, lives to nurture, and a husband to deal with. The best thing is to suck it up like I do the dust bunnies. Sometimes I give them names. Billy after my oldest and Johnny after my youngest.
I love my children, but when I drop them off at the bus stop, I’m overcome with relief, followed by a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. When I enter my driveway, my toe eases more and more on the gas, and I wonder what would happen if I didn’t stop. But I do, my bumper inches away from the garage door. I smoke a few cigarettes in the car instead, and I bite away at my yellowing nails, leaving nothing but the skin. I chew them up and they scrape my throat. I hate to admit it, but it feels good.
I don’t remember not liking children. I longed for them at one point. Billy is in little league, Johnny plays chess. I have to drive them to practice, pack their snacks. Remember that Billy likes the crust cut off his sandwiches, and Johnny doesn’t like his food to touch. Then we’ll do homework: algebra then fractions. All before my husband comes home.
If asked, I’ll say that my family completes me, but it’s not until one of them is sick that I remember that I know how to heal people. I yearn for flu season, for sniffles and aches, and I think about what could have been as I spoon feed them cough syrup. As I clean up their toys, I reminisce about the time when they were still inside me. I trace the lines on my stomach through my shirt, and I remember that I had a cesarean. I wasn’t afraid because I had done one before. That was when I fell in love with cutting.
I love my children, but when I drop them off at the bus stop, I’m overcome with relief, followed by a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. When I enter my driveway, my toe eases more and more on the gas, and I wonder what would happen if I didn’t stop. But I do, my bumper inches away from the garage door. I smoke a few cigarettes in the car instead, and I bite away at my yellowing nails, leaving nothing but the skin. I chew them up and they scrape my throat. I hate to admit it, but it feels good.
I don’t remember not liking children. I longed for them at one point. Billy is in little league, Johnny plays chess. I have to drive them to practice, pack their snacks. Remember that Billy likes the crust cut off his sandwiches, and Johnny doesn’t like his food to touch. Then we’ll do homework: algebra then fractions. All before my husband comes home.
If asked, I’ll say that my family completes me, but it’s not until one of them is sick that I remember that I know how to heal people. I yearn for flu season, for sniffles and aches, and I think about what could have been as I spoon feed them cough syrup. As I clean up their toys, I reminisce about the time when they were still inside me. I trace the lines on my stomach through my shirt, and I remember that I had a cesarean. I wasn’t afraid because I had done one before. That was when I fell in love with cutting.
I make dinner every night. On Monday, we had spaghetti, Tuesday was taco night, Wednesday we had clam chowder, Thursday was meatloaf. Friday is always a challenge. At this point, I’m out of ideas but the boys refuse to eat leftovers, and as I scrape the remainder of the ground beef and mashed potatoes in the trash, I wonder what we’ll have for dinner tonight. The kids are playing catch in the living room even though I’ve told them a hundred times not to play with balls in the house. They’ve already broken a lamp.
I pull out my recipe book. It was a gift from my mother-in-law.
“You’ll get a lot of use out of this,” she said to me, and I remember thinking she was a fool. I was too busy to cook, but in the end she was right. I run my fingers along the spine that’s been repaired with duct tape, before flipping through the yellowing pages. They feel waxy to the touch.
Preheat the oven to 375°
3 cups of pasta (uncooked)
3 tablespoons of butter
1lb ground beef
I brown the rest of the beef and remind myself to add it to the grocery list. The sizzle and steam overcrowd the kitchen, leaving only room for me. I like it this way. The rattling of the spice drawer overpowering the sound of Billy daring Johnny to do a backflip off the couch. I check my inventory: salt, pepper, chili powder, paprika. Now Johnny’s crying, and my eyes are watering.
1 medium onion, roughly chopped
4-5 cloves of garlic (My husband hates garlic, I’ll do 6)
1/3 cup red bell pepper, diced.
I make sure to dice them well because the boys don’t like red bell peppers. They don’t like any vegetables, but I make them because they’re good for them. Antioxidants, vitamins, minerals, all those buzz words. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, but just in case, I put my foot in there to keep them from complaining. The key in getting kids to eat their veggies is knowing how to make them taste good. Most moms will lie and say that the secret ingredient is love, but my secret something is better. I let the meat grinder do most of the work. It lets out an ear-splitting sound, probably from the nails. An extra dash of cayenne will cover it up, and so will the cheese.
Bring a pot of water to a boil
Combine the meat mixture and the sauce
Bake for 30 minutes
Now, Billy is soothing Johnny, while I tend to my stub. I had never gone this big. My tweaks were usually much smaller, a pinch of salt, some hair, extra butter, eyelashes. It worked for a while. No more tears and the picky eating stopped. But it wasn’t long before I started to bald, and they demanded a new meal every night. Today I served dinner, and they loved it. The kids fight for seconds, and they beg me to save the rest for tomorrow.
While they eat, I teeter around, picking up shards of ceramic from the carpet. I remind myself to buy a new lamp. There’s silence at the dinner table, which is new.
“This is good, Mom,” says Billy. “But what’s wrong with your foot?”
“Just a little sauce,” I say, adjusting the hem of my skirt. The bottom is embroidered in blood.
It’s not long before their father comes home for dinner, letting his suitcase fall in the entryway. He unfastens his tie, and kicks off his loafers, which I place on the shoe rack. Then I ready his plate. Two heaping spoonfuls with bread on the side. I set his plate across from mine which is now cold. He sits down as I place his beer in front of him.
“Dad, Billy broke the lamp!” Johnny yells.
“How did that happen?”
“He hit it with his baseball.”
“Because you didn’t catch it,” said Billy.
“I thought I said no baseball in the house,” he said, making eyes at me.
“I told them to play outside.”
“Then why is the lamp broken?”
“I’ll buy a new one,” I said, picking up my silverware.
“My mother bought us that lamp.”
“And you hated it,” I said. “Besides, you always complain about the light bill being too high. Problem solved.”
He got up from the table abruptly, taking his plate to the couch. He didn’t like it when I mentioned money. I didn’t work anymore, and that changed things. He knew that but would never take the blame for it. I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that we were scraping by. My allowance dwindled as the weeks went on. We wouldn’t be getting a lamp anytime soon. When I go to the kitchen to clean, he follows me and proceeds to scold me in front of the children. I hate when he yells but I don’t blame him. He can’t scold anyone at work. Besides I’m mad at him for reasons that are bigger than this.
“What if I went back to work?” I ask.
At that, he takes a plate from the sink and smashes it, and I bend down to collect the pieces. He yells at me some more, but I only catch a few words. Instead, I trace my fingers along the edge of a knife. He's the provider. I should respect that. So, I give him one of my ears and finish my dinner in peace.
I pull out my recipe book. It was a gift from my mother-in-law.
“You’ll get a lot of use out of this,” she said to me, and I remember thinking she was a fool. I was too busy to cook, but in the end she was right. I run my fingers along the spine that’s been repaired with duct tape, before flipping through the yellowing pages. They feel waxy to the touch.
Preheat the oven to 375°
3 cups of pasta (uncooked)
3 tablespoons of butter
1lb ground beef
I brown the rest of the beef and remind myself to add it to the grocery list. The sizzle and steam overcrowd the kitchen, leaving only room for me. I like it this way. The rattling of the spice drawer overpowering the sound of Billy daring Johnny to do a backflip off the couch. I check my inventory: salt, pepper, chili powder, paprika. Now Johnny’s crying, and my eyes are watering.
1 medium onion, roughly chopped
4-5 cloves of garlic (My husband hates garlic, I’ll do 6)
1/3 cup red bell pepper, diced.
I make sure to dice them well because the boys don’t like red bell peppers. They don’t like any vegetables, but I make them because they’re good for them. Antioxidants, vitamins, minerals, all those buzz words. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, but just in case, I put my foot in there to keep them from complaining. The key in getting kids to eat their veggies is knowing how to make them taste good. Most moms will lie and say that the secret ingredient is love, but my secret something is better. I let the meat grinder do most of the work. It lets out an ear-splitting sound, probably from the nails. An extra dash of cayenne will cover it up, and so will the cheese.
Bring a pot of water to a boil
Combine the meat mixture and the sauce
Bake for 30 minutes
Now, Billy is soothing Johnny, while I tend to my stub. I had never gone this big. My tweaks were usually much smaller, a pinch of salt, some hair, extra butter, eyelashes. It worked for a while. No more tears and the picky eating stopped. But it wasn’t long before I started to bald, and they demanded a new meal every night. Today I served dinner, and they loved it. The kids fight for seconds, and they beg me to save the rest for tomorrow.
While they eat, I teeter around, picking up shards of ceramic from the carpet. I remind myself to buy a new lamp. There’s silence at the dinner table, which is new.
“This is good, Mom,” says Billy. “But what’s wrong with your foot?”
“Just a little sauce,” I say, adjusting the hem of my skirt. The bottom is embroidered in blood.
It’s not long before their father comes home for dinner, letting his suitcase fall in the entryway. He unfastens his tie, and kicks off his loafers, which I place on the shoe rack. Then I ready his plate. Two heaping spoonfuls with bread on the side. I set his plate across from mine which is now cold. He sits down as I place his beer in front of him.
“Dad, Billy broke the lamp!” Johnny yells.
“How did that happen?”
“He hit it with his baseball.”
“Because you didn’t catch it,” said Billy.
“I thought I said no baseball in the house,” he said, making eyes at me.
“I told them to play outside.”
“Then why is the lamp broken?”
“I’ll buy a new one,” I said, picking up my silverware.
“My mother bought us that lamp.”
“And you hated it,” I said. “Besides, you always complain about the light bill being too high. Problem solved.”
He got up from the table abruptly, taking his plate to the couch. He didn’t like it when I mentioned money. I didn’t work anymore, and that changed things. He knew that but would never take the blame for it. I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that we were scraping by. My allowance dwindled as the weeks went on. We wouldn’t be getting a lamp anytime soon. When I go to the kitchen to clean, he follows me and proceeds to scold me in front of the children. I hate when he yells but I don’t blame him. He can’t scold anyone at work. Besides I’m mad at him for reasons that are bigger than this.
“What if I went back to work?” I ask.
At that, he takes a plate from the sink and smashes it, and I bend down to collect the pieces. He yells at me some more, but I only catch a few words. Instead, I trace my fingers along the edge of a knife. He's the provider. I should respect that. So, I give him one of my ears and finish my dinner in peace.
After dinner, I put the children to bed. This night is different because I carry my recipe book to my room. I make notes in the waxy margins.
*One foot gets kids to eat leftovers
*One ear stops fights
When my husband comes in, I feel my body tense. He changes out of his work clothes and proceeds to join me in bed. I keep my eyes in my book, burying my nose in its pages. My husband scolds me again. I know I shouldn’t be taking work to bed. It makes him feel unimportant. I’m afraid to tell him that he is, that sometimes I hate Billy and Johnny, and I hate myself more for hating them. He tries to undress me, but I hold the book close to my chest. When I start to cry, he yells at me for making him feel bad. So, I close my eyes and let him have the rest.
*One foot gets kids to eat leftovers
*One ear stops fights
When my husband comes in, I feel my body tense. He changes out of his work clothes and proceeds to join me in bed. I keep my eyes in my book, burying my nose in its pages. My husband scolds me again. I know I shouldn’t be taking work to bed. It makes him feel unimportant. I’m afraid to tell him that he is, that sometimes I hate Billy and Johnny, and I hate myself more for hating them. He tries to undress me, but I hold the book close to my chest. When I start to cry, he yells at me for making him feel bad. So, I close my eyes and let him have the rest.
Meilyn Woods is a first year MFA candidate at McNeese State University. Meilyn received her BA from Northwestern State University in Liberal Arts with a concentration in Humanities and Social Thought with minors in English and Creative Writing. She also serves as the Assistant Fiction Editor for the McNeese Review.