Dinnertime
/Lauren Woods
It takes several saws back and forth before the stubborn pink chunks of meat begin to break down. And even then, you need the fork and knife together to pull at the pieces, until the last sinews pull apart. You fill the cutting board with precise chunks. Your mind drifts backward. It is cathartic in a way, this non-use, or other use, rather, of your brain.
Your baby boy makes animal noises somewhere at your feet, while your daughter reads a book at the kitchen table. She is already reading two years ahead of schedule.
You too were years ahead from kindergarten on. You remember sitting at home doing your homework while the boys played outside, thinking you were going to do something incredible with your life.
“Grrrr,” the baby says. His eyes squint with merriment, surprised at the sounds he is making.
“That’s right, a bear growls,” you hear yourself say and wonder how it is that you can carry on entire conversations without thinking at all. Still, he must be getting something from the sound of your voice. His words are taking off.
You remember the first time you knew what you wanted out of life—to write a book of stories. You were in just in middle school at the time, staring at pictures of the authors on your parents’ bookshelf, and thinking, couldn’t that be you? Hadn’t your mother devoted her life to ensuring you could do whatever you’d like when you grew up?
Your daughter says something.
“That’s great,” you tell her.
“Are you listening?” she demands.
“Of course.”
“What did I say?”
You play it back. “You were practicing rhymes.”
“Yes,” she says. Long and leaning over the table, she already looks like a little woman. She turns back to her book.
You are almost done cutting. Your fingertips are sore from gripping the handle of the knife. You ought to get it sharpened. It feels dull, and you have to push harder to cut through the layers of membrane. You reposition the handle and push down harder.
When your husband texts, on his way home, he asks if you’ve read his article. You have. You send back some thoughts. You clean your hands and reply to a work email on your phone. You cut more pieces of meat
Your daughter asks you for some rhymes. “Slice, dice,” you say.
She shrieks. “I slice nice!”
Once the cutting board is filled, you lift and turn it sideways over the skillet, before sliding the pieces of meat in. The oil splatters when it hits, singing your hands. You stir until the pieces have browned.
“Meow,” the boy says.
“Meow, little one,” you say. “Kitty bowl coming up.”
The pieces aren’t enough for the dinner bowls. “Oh,” you say. You overestimated how much there was.
“I slice thrice,” you say. “Here.” You grab little browned pieces for the kids to snack on while they wait. There’s only so much, but they look so hungry.
“More, Mommy!” your daughter says.
“Moooo!” agrees the boy.
“Moooo! Moooo! Moooo!” they chant together, the boy imitating the girl, and the girl imitating the boy.
Your husband texts again. He wonders if you remembered to pick something up for dinner. You send him back a thumbs up.
When you first became pregnant, one of the men at your office joked that you would start forgetting things, but it was actually your best year. It wasn’t that your work suffered much. You could always make a little more time for everyone by working harder. Only you still haven’t written the book of stories. You are embarrassed by how often you think of it and don’t tell anyone about it, not even your husband or your closest friends.
In the early days after your first was born, you used to steal away to work on it—short stories, of all things. As if there weren’t enough waste already in the world. Why did you call it stealing away, even in your own mind? But that was how it felt, sneaking away for an hour and stealing time and pieces of yourself that didn’t belong to you any longer.
It wasn’t that they didn’t support you. They all said they did. But when it came down to taking an hour here or there to write, there was never the time. Of course, you could write. Only after the appointment, after the report, after dinner, after bedtime. Sometimes you lied, snuck away under another pretext to write, but even that became tiring.
They needed you. It wasn’t until your second came along, and they needed so much more of you, that this feeling began coming on, this ability to speak without really thinking at all. The feeling of losing yourself.
The kids look so small and hungry that you turn toward the stove and peel open the front of your forehead. Your fingernails tear into the pink, sinewy membrane inside your head. You grab another handful before it closes up again. No one notices. You cut it into pieces.
“I dice nice,” you say.
You add it to the pan. The firmness sizzles away under the heat. After that, it is easier to break apart.
You tear off piece after piece. But it still doesn’t seem to be enough.
Your daughter stares at her book. “What else rhymes with nice?”
“Paradise,” you call out.
And isn’t it? Wouldn’t people kill for your life? Didn’t you choose it? Does the world need more stories, or does it need food to fill bellies? She gives a beatific smile. They’re getting bigger, and so very smart. You do take pride in that.
When your husband gets home, he tells you your edits to his article were good.
“What did I say again?” you ask.
“You’re joking.” He rubs your back and holds his hand out for a piece.
You give a baffled smile. You can’t, for the life of you, remember what his article was about. You can’t remember what any of this is about. Surely it all has to mean something.
You cut off a piece for him, and more. Some for colleagues and friends, for the birthday parties, the school fundraisers, the office functions, the homework, the report for the office, the other things that may be slipping your mind. You ought to say no, and sometimes you do, but they are all so hungry, standing around, waiting with their expectant faces. If you say no to one, another appears instantly, ready for their share. So even if you don’t give in to everyone, at least you can feed those dearest to you.
And why you? Perhaps it’s their fault for asking so eagerly, for assuming you have infinite treasures to share, assuming it’s in your nature, because you are a mother. Perhaps it’s your own fault for being too tired to keep fighting, for holding the skillet, for digging into your own body, and being so willing and forgiving.
The extra drop-off for your husband. The late night for work. It’s always a small thing. Just a few minutes. One small thing won’t prevent you from writing. It’s just a piece. A sliver, a membrane. A small, digestible chunk you won’t even notice missing.
“Mommy doesn’t remember things,” your daughter says.
Sometimes, you look back and wonder if any of this might’ve been different, if you hadn’t given so much away. If you’d kept a little more for yourself. Everyone might have been a little hungrier, but wouldn’t they have made out all right? How would it feel to see your life played out, whole, instead of torn into bits and pieces, wondering which successes were truly yours, if any at all. Sometimes you ache for the memory of what it was like to apply your whole mind and body to something, anything. To feel whole again.
You stretch your fingers, arcing them backward. They are stiff from all the cutting.
Your husband plants a kiss right above your nose, on your forehead. “What’s for dinner? Smells good.”
You shake your head and shrug. “I’m so tired I can hardly remember my name.”
“Mommy brain,” he says with a silly face, making the little boy laugh.
Lauren D. Woods is a Northern Virginia-based writer, with fiction in The Antioch Review, Wasafiri, The Offing, Lunch Ticket, and other journals. She works in international relations by day and lives with her two young children. Lauren conceived of this story while cooking dinner and catching up with an old friend, another mother of young kids, and discussing the feeling of giving oneself away piecemeal. She tweets @LadiWoods1.
