Mom, Me, and the Meatball Incident

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating coconut marshmallows. Well, I wasn’t actually sitting. I was three and a half, maybe four years old. So, it was more like I was in a squirmy crouch, with my feet on the seat of the chair. In retrospect, my wriggly fidgeting was most certainly responsible for what happened next, although the details are a bit blurry.

I must have been in Dad’s seat at the end of the table next to the stove. Mom was simmering a pot of meatballs in tomato sauce. Spaghetti and meatballs were, and always have been, a family favorite – a staple in our Italian family. Mom wasn’t one to leave a small child unsupervised, but she apparently had at that moment – if only for a moment.

What I remember quite clearly is standing on the chair wailing as hot tomato sauce ran down my legs, covering the seat of the chair, dripping down the legs of the chair, and the front of the stove.  

Mom came running into the room. I can still see her slipping on the sauce as it spread across the linoleum. Her feet skidded out from under her, and she slammed onto her backside, her legs spread unladylike, her eyes opened wide like a surprised doll. Meatballs peppered the kitchen floor, some cracked open and steaming. Mom tried to stand up, first to get up from a hands and knees position, then trying to get over to the counter for support. But she kept falling back down into the sauce. Her hands, legs, and the skirt of her dress were covered in bright red sauce. I stood frozen in place on the chair, crying, a mess of snot and tears running down my face.

 “I’m coming. Don’t cry honey,” Mom called to me through her own tears as she slipped and slid slowly across the floor. “It’s okay. I’m coming. It’s okay.”

I don’t remember the moment that Mom reached me or how we got out of there. I do remember being at old Doc Beckwith’s office and having him examine my arms and my legs. He examined Mom’s as well. There were no blisters, but we both had many very red welts. 

 How did we get to Dr. Beckwith’s office? I don’t know. I do know that at some point someone must have called my dad who was working at the D & C office on the northeast corner of Main and Clinton. He arrived at the doctor’s office with the car which I thought was funny. He worked three blocks from home and usually walked to work. Doc Beckwith’s office was only two blocks from our house. (Gotta love a small town.) In any case, he drove Mom and me back home.

What happened next? Well, that’s something else that I don’t really remember. Somebody cleaned up the meatballs and sauce. Somebody made dinner that night for my folks, my four siblings that had been at school, and me. The rest of the story is gone from my memory. It’s not the child’s responsibility to clean up the mess, but rather to be taken care of and loved. And I do remember that part. I always remember that part.