It still boggles my mind to this day when I think about it. Who actually likes meatloaf? To me, there is nothing appetizing about it. I don’t see the savory goodness that others do. It reminds me of dead brains I once dissected in my sophomore Anatomy class. And it is even worse when those who cook the meatloaf add items such as corn, cranberries, or carrots in it. Honestly, nothing helps. But yet, I’ve eaten it my whole life because of my mother.
My mom has always had health issues for as long as I can remember. To me though nothing was weird or different about my mom or my home life in comparison to others. She loved me with all her heart and we always had great times together. But as kindergarten faded into fifth grade and fifth grade into freshman year of high school, I became more aware of it. There were a lot of things that my mom couldn’t do compared to other moms because they required too much physical effort, such as preparing dinner for the family each night.
It also became more aware to me that she hated that about herself. As a mom, imagine how hard it would be to not be able to do what you desired for your children? I have seen her cry about it before, and we have even discussed it. However, let it not go unknown that my mother always tries the best she can when she can. I think because of mom’s restrictions, it has drawn my father and I very close; he is my best friend actually. And I know mom is thankful for him and all he does for his family.
Because of everything, my dad has always done most of the cooking in the household. But he loves it, cooking at least. (He is never ecstatic to do dishes.) There was always dinner ready for the family each evening growing up. It varied from spaghetti, tacos, chicken and rice, beef stew, gumbo, or even breakfast food. Then there were those days that I would come home from school to my mother in the kitchen, leaning over and checking the oven. Most of the time her hair was a mess and she was still in her pajamas. Those tended to be long sleep shirts with holes and bleach stains throughout them. Her reasoning was that she liked the worn out stuff, it was more comfortable she would say. Though now I know it was because she didn’t want to spend money on herself when she could spend money on her children. This is how she gave and loved in the way she could. Eventually, the timer to the oven would buzz and I would take a break from playing dolls or doing homework to come eat what mom had made, meatloaf.
Each time mom cooked dinner it would be meatloaf. I think it was because she had strength that day and wanted to contribute while she could, and meatloaf was an easy, filling meal. My brother and sister genuinely enjoyed meatloaf, so I think mom assumed I did too. Its smell would wander into all parts of the house, so I was sure to close my bedroom door. The five of us would all sit to enjoy (or in my case pretend to enjoy) mom’s meatloaf. Usually the wiggly brown loaf of meat was paired with white rice and brown gravy. Therefore, I tended to fill majority of my plate with that and put only a minor amount of meatloaf on top.
Each of us talked about our day and somehow the conversation turned to laughter, the genuine kind that made me have to stop to breathe. My mother’s smile would be uncontrollable, knowing that she was the one who prepared the meal for her family, knowing she relived my father after a hard day at work, knowing she did what she physically could for her family. We still eat at the same brown wood table today when all five of us are together. The conversations are not as long but the love is just as deep. Mom made meatloaf a couple weeks ago. She still doesn’t know I don’t like it, but that does not matter. I sacrifice a meal, as I know she sacrificed so much for me.
