I finish bathing the two little ones, keeping one eye on the clock as I lather, rinse and finally coax them into their pjs. And just in time at that. I hear the doorknob turn as I collect the towels. It’s 5:34. Dovid bursts noisily through the front door with his usual urgency. He’s hungry. He’s tired. And he’s high-strung with endless nervous energy. Nine hours of school and a 30-minute bus ride can do that to a six-year-old. With hardly a greeting, he makes a mad dash to the bathroom—school restrooms nauseate him—chucking his backpack and coat mid-path. I hang up his jacket and backpack, yelling a brief hello, as I head to the kitchen and settle the baby and toddler with some apple slices, and dole out piping hot meatballs on Dovid’s favorite red plate—the one with the soccer balls all over it. Ahh, meatballs. Dovid is still adjusting to the long hours of the formidable first grade. Nothing a good ol’ plate of meatballs can’t solve. I just have to convince Dovid of its powers. It’s a chutzpah how he doesn’t loosen up and smile at the very sight of them.Meatballs are the scent of home—the very smell of birthdays and consolations, the whiff of pure goodness. So great is the power of meatballs, I even made a double recipe and sent over a big pan to my dear friend Leah, who is laid up in bed with a horrible third-degree burn. I can hear Dovid washing up just as I finish pouring him a glass of juice. A very tall glass. He forgets to drink if no one reminds him.
He sticks his tongue out and gags when he spies the meatballs. His dark blonde eyebrows furrow inward, the way they always do when he gets angry. I pretend not to notice. “Yuck, I hate meatballs!!!” He gulps down his juice with a loud, harried blessing. “Amein. Of course you don’t hate meatballs!” I say, as I retrieve two apple slices the baby keeps throwing at me. “This one you’ll like. It tastes different this time.” This batch is a new recipe; I mixed ground beef and veal instead of just ground beef, and I added rice too. It is sooo much better this time. “I do not wanna eat them. It’s saucy and browny.” He bangs his palm on the glass table for emphasis, his blonde pei’os agreeing wholeheartedly as they nod along. I cross my arms determinedly. I just have to break through his antagonistic, stiff-necked meatball attitude once and for all. I just don’t get it! How can he say no to meatballs? Meatballs were there for me when I didn’t get the big part I wanted at the high-school senior play.
Meatballs salvaged my pulverized ego when I was picked as feature editor of the yearbook. (Come on, we all know I was meant to be editor-in-chief.) Meatballs celebrated my first job, my first dinner as a wife and probably my first dinner as a mom, though I was too weepy to remember for sure. “Everyone loves meatballs,” I assure him enthusiastically, my voice dripping like maple syrup on a pile of breakfast pancakes. He juts his chin and pulls his lips tightly shut, his nose scrunching upwards ever so insignificantly. “But I don’t.” He says through gritted teeth, tipping his chair back so dangerously, I am afraid he is going to fall. “Just one meatball Dov Dov.” I hold up a spoonful to his mouth, his scrunchedup nose turns to the left. I stop short just before actually prying his mouth open. I can’t stop myself. “You are going to love this meatball, Dovid.
Danny and Mimi each ate two, you know. You just gotta trust me. One piece, Dovid. Just one.” Though I speak in a (hopefully) calm voice, my insides clench tightly. I refill his empty glass with some more juice and take away the baby’s mushed-up apple that is about to land on my ceiling. I absentmindedly hand her a crayon from the table to keep her quiet.“I told you, I am not eating meatballs.” He pushes back his chair and bulldozes to the pantry for a snack. “Oh no, you don’t.” I firmly grab his skinny arm and plant him to the chair. “Young man, we are not getting up from this chair until we finish this one meatball. I am convinced you will ask for more once you take the first bite, but you know what? I won’t give you any seconds. Well, maybe if you beg…” He sits brooding, toying with his cup and slightly opens his mouth as I quickly cram in a spoonful of meatball. He reluctantly starts chewing. And chewing. “Es tzipt,” he sputters, coughing up his mouthful onto the plate. “Yuck!!!! It’s crazy hot!” He quickly grabs a napkin and with the theatrics of a drama queen starts viciously wiping his tongue. I can feel the familiar pounding of a stomach migraine coming on. I can never do anything right by him. I grab the crayon back from the baby just as she starts coloring on the walls. “Dovid.” I turn to face him, nudging my sleeves up, the room feels so hot. “Just one measly meatball for heaven’s sake. Why are you being so difficult?” I hiss. “Leave me alone! You are the horriblest Mommy. You don’t love me!” “But of course I love you!” I plead shamelessly, almost whiny. He storms off to his room in a huff. Sigh. We have been through this number before.
Different scenario, different day, same words. Play the “you don’t love me” stratagem and I turn into a jellied mess; my confidence paralyzed, my authority incapacitated. I dejectedly stare down at the sorry plate of cold meatballs. How can a plate infused with such goodness and love breed so much hostility? The meatballs look positively sad. Yet, at the same time I wonder: Why am I so bent on making my son eat meatballs when he so obviously does not like them? But for goodness sake, we aren’t talking about mere meatballs! These are my meatballs. Meatballs rolled with good intentions, spiced with love, simmered with concern and cooked with a whole lot of heart. Meatballs show how much I care. Or do they? Perhaps I am the one with the stiffnecked meatball attitude. I can hear Dovid furiously searching for his iPod. The loud bang as he opens and closes the closet door tells me so. And suddenly I know. Meatballs are like the potato kugel Mom guilts me into eating every Friday afternoon when I come by to say “Good Shabbos.” I have my own kugel, a yummy kugel at that. But Mom insists I eat a slice and forces me to take home a pie too. Every…Erev…Shabbos…without…fail. And I eat it; even if hers tastes bland and I crave for a slice of my own over-salted version, even when I am on a carb-free diet, even when I don’t have an appetite. Because this is how Mom gives. You can’t say no to Mom’s love. No matter how old you are.
Suddenly, I understand Mom in a whole new way. I understand me in a whole new way. I am a mom of my own now. In a cozy mint-green kitchen, cooking my own batch of goodness and warmth. (Okay, and some bloody good meatballs if I may say so.) And yes, meatballs sustain and warm the body and soul. Meatballs shout “I love you.” But not for Dovid. I run after him. Dovid. I sit down next to him on his bed and stay quiet, gently stroking his back. His blonde pei’os droop onto my shoulder as he unconsciously leans marginally towards me. I whisper into his ears how much I love him. He doesn’t protest. I tenderly cup his chin so I can look into his beautiful and astonishingly large hazel/green eyes. His long lashes don’t block out their sadness. “I love you, Dovid,” I tell him. “I love you so much, and I am so sad and sorry I made you feel like I don’t. I will always love you, no matter what,” I repeat, again and again. He lies down on my lap. He believes me. I finger his dimples and feel his slightly wet cheek. I tell him again how sorry I am. How much he means to me. Until I believe me. Until I believe I have a lot more love than meatballs to give. I know I can learn to give him what he needs. Not what I choose to give. Because sometimes, meatballs are just meatballs.