It smells like yesterday

What do you remember from your childhood? Or your college years? Or a home you once lived in? I have memories that are visual; I can see in my head what my bedroom looked like when I was in the 3rd grade. I can remember experiences -- scenarios as they unfolded so many years ago and how I felt about them. For me, the most powerful memories come as what I call "sense memories" built on notable smells.

Today I was walking down the athletics hall at Charlie's school. All of the sudden I smelled the locker room area of my own high school. The smell was a combination of musty and bleach. It wasn't unpleasant; in fact it was kind of comforting, connecting me to a happy time in my life. 

Earlier this summer, Charlie got in the front seat of the car. Immediately, I was greeted by a scent that took me a moment to recognize. Soon, the memory formed in my head. I was smelling Drakkar Noir, the cologne that Mike wore while we were in college. If I closed my eyes, I could see myself snuggling in close and burying my nose in the sparse hairs lightly sprinkled across Mike's chest. I breathed in deeply and smiled at the at memory. I could see my fingers tickling across his chest, my...WAIT A DAGGONE MINUTE! 

I snapped to, realizing that this woodsy citrus smell wasn't coming from the chest of my husband of 20 years. No, this scent was coming from my 15-year old son who was sitting in the car next to me. Aw heck no! I couldn't have my son wearing cologne that drew me back to his father's room in college.

Thanks to a well-timed pitch from a PR company who offered a free bottle, Charlie now wears British Sterling H.I.M. Private Stock cologne.

Another scent that transports me in time is pipe tobacco, which conjures up memories of my Grandpa before he gave up the habit. Pipe smokers aren't very common these days, but if there is one within 20 feet of me, I'm six years old on my Grandpa's lap again. 

You would think that given my round shape, I would have olfactory memories tied to food -- cakes baking or Thanksgiving turkeys, maybe. But I don't. I wonder why that is? My poor kids will probably have memories triggered by the smell of burning food. 

Do you have any memories that are triggered by certain smells? What are they? 

The love child with the funny name

Sing with me...

"On the 2nd day of Christmas, my true love gave to me..."

A vintage-real-life-never-out-of-the-box-signature-on-her-bum-birth-certificate-included-Cabbage-Patch-Kid!

She was a little delayed on arrival, but given that she's been in a box since 1985, I'll cut her a break for not knowing about GPS.

The box came just as we were leaving for Charlie's basketball game. It was big, but light. I didn't have a sense of what was in it, but Mike was happy it had made it. So when we came home from the basketball game, we all sat in the family room as I opened the box. I'll admit to getting a little teary when I saw the yellow cardboard packaging with the chubby leafy baby logo.

Mike said he had tried to buy a doll with red pigtails, like the one my sister had, but I'm glad he didn't get that one. All those years ago, in the year without a Cabbage Patch Kid, I didn't want my sister's doll. I wanted my own. And now I have her.

She came, still affixed to the packaging with twisty wire, her birth certificate still glued to the cardboard next to her.

Her name: Elna Fanny.

Elna, which means "sun ray."

Fanny, which means, well, duh. Fanny, bum, bucket, buttocks.

My very own Cabbage Patch Kid and her name means, loosely translated of course, "sun shines out her arse!"

I wasted no time in opening the box. This is no collector's item doll. This is my doll. And I will love her and hug her and squeeze her...sorry to go John Steinbeck for a moment.

Anyway, it is pretty funny how maternal I felt toward Elna Fanny as soon as I freed her from her box. Even after 28 years encased in cardboard and cellophane (imagine the bedhead!), she has that baby powdery smell that I remember Cabbage Patch Kids having. Her birth certificate came with a form to fill out so I can send away for an official certificate suitable for framing, though I have a feeling that's a piece of mail that would go unanswered these days.

I sat on the couch with her and smelled her chubby cheeks, finding myself talking in baby talk and allowing my mind to wander a bit about how it might be to have a REAL baby in the house again. Then I remembered real babies don't always smell like powder and they are not often content to sit in one place for 28 minutes, let alone years.

So, I thanked Mike with a kiss, and took Elna Fanny -- it's a must to use both names -- upstairs to bed with me. Oh, no worries. No co-sleeping here. She is tucked into her own call-it-a-bassinet-but-its-really-a-laundry-basket next to my bed, that just happened to be there in a handy spot.

She'll probably hang out in my room most of the time. Some days, maybe I'll pick her up just to smell her powdery sweetness. I might peek at her bum just to see the "real" Xavier Roberts signature again. And sometimes I'll just smile at the thought that Elna Fanny is the love child of my childhood dreams and my husband's desire to make them to come true.

The year without a Cabbage Patch Kid

The year was 1983. The hottest Christmas toy -- Cabbage Patch Kids -- were flying off the shelves and leaving parents all over scrambling to put one under the Christmas tree. I was 13, probably too old for dolls. I don't recall wanting a Cabbage Patch…that is until I didn't get one.

Christmas morning, my three siblings and I sat at the top of the stairs, waiting, as we did every year, for my dad to go downstairs to check if Santa had come. He made his way downstairs, started the coffee, and declared that we were up much too early, that Santa had not arrived yet.

We all hollered our objections and tore down the stairs into the living room, which we only really used for Christmas and for sitting in the green chair when we were in trouble. There, under the tree, was a so-ugly-it-was-cute, orange yarn-haired, chubby faced doll peeking out from behind a cellophane window. The doll's birth certificate showed through the window, proclaiming her name to be -- well, I don't remember what her name was, probably because I was distracted by another name on the box:

To Shelley. Love Santa.

This doll wasn't for me. She was for my 10-year old sister.  A wave of disappointment swept over me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of another figure.

This one was a doll, too. She had a similar round face with wide eyes, though hers were brown, not blue. Similar, but there was something just a little off. Instead of two pigtails, this doll had dark brown hair pulled back into one pony tail.

She was just sitting by herself under the tree. No box. No birth certificate announcing her name. The only paper this doll came with was a sticker on her ugly white and seafoam green pajamas.

To Amy. Love Santa.

Santa had left me a fake doll. Of course by this time, I knew the truth about Santa, so I knew that my mother, my very own mother, had thrown me under the cabbage bus and left me with an inauthentic version of the best toy of Christmas.

I don't remember my reaction. I hope I was gracious, but I'm sure my disappointment showed. There was my sister playing with her real deal doll, straight from the Cabbage Patch, while I was left holding a square-bodied imposter that did not have Xavier Roberts' signature on its butt.

Looking back as an adult, I can appreciate that my mom took the time to actually make my doll. Sure, she may have risked bodily harm to snag my sister's authentic Cabbage Patch Kid, but she gave up hours of her own time to make mine. I think that doll, whose name I don't remember either, is still in my parent's basement.

I laugh about it now and tell the story to point out how my sister was always the most favored child. I have an appreciation of stretching the Christmas budget and trying to make the kids happy without breaking the bank. Yet somehow, there is still a sting in the memory of the year without a Cabbage Patch Kid.

Earlier this week, I was at #PLAYIndy, hosted by Indy With Kids. There was a Cabbage Patch doll there available for winning. I held out a secret hope that my name would be called. That I would be the one to walk away with the real deal doll.

I'm not sure what I would have done with the doll if I'd won it. Perhaps I would have donated it to the Giving Tree at church. Maybe I would have sold it on the Facebook garage sales. But just maybe, I would have brought her home, taken her out of the box and enjoyed my very own Cabbage Patch Kid.

Sensory recall

Isn't it funny how a smell or a color or another bit of sensory input can transport us back to an earlier place and time?

I might have mentioned that our air conditioner is on the fritz. As in completely kaput and in need of replacement. It's been that way for a couple of weeks. Thankfully, relief in the form of a new unit is on its way later this week. Until then, however, we're rocking the open windows and fans -- ceiling fans, box fans, oscillating fans.

With temps in the 90s and humidity high, the sensation of hot, muggy air takes me back to my grandparents' house when I was growing up. Grandma and Grandpa didn't have air conditioning, so summer days and nights were spent with the windows open and fans blowing.

The adults would often head to the covered back porch to sit and visit. My favorite place to retreat to was my Aunt Molly's room. It was at the end of the hall, just past the holy water font and the bathroom with the peachy pink tile. Molly's room was painted lavender and had two or three rectangular windows positioned on the wall facing the backyard. The windows tilted outward, meaning any breeze would have to maneuver its way underneath the open panes before it could reach me.

I would lie down on the bed -- it was always made -- with the lights off. The gray box fan on the floor would be aimed toward me. I would lie perfectly still, avoiding any movement so as not to generate more body heat, and listen to the grown ups' conversation on the back porch just outside the window.

There was something peaceful about that hot, muggy quiet. The hum of the fan. The chatter of the outside world -- people talking, screen doors slamming shut, leaves rustling with the occasional breeze. The stillness of my own body.

It's a happy memory for me, a memory that is a silver lining 30 years later, when I'm sitting in my own house, wishing for air conditioning. 

I was such a nerd

When I was growing up, I was such a nerd. The oldest of four kids, and born to a nerdy (but lovable) mother, I didn't have anyone to show me how the cool kids did things. But I wasn't really aware of how nerdy I was. It's only now that I look back on myself as a child that I can see that I was probably the definition of square.

1. I walked to the library every week and brought home a dozen or so books to read.
2. I dressed up as a dictionary for Halloween one year.
3. When the local talk radio station switched to a Top 40 format, I called to complain.
4. I fell in love with the song "Jack and Diane" by John Mellencamp in 1984 -- two years after it was released. 
5. Along with two other friends, I started an "exclusive" vocabulary club. We were the only members.

This past Thursday night I went out with some girlfriends to a local Mexican restaurant. The booths each had this chicken head carved into them:

It immediately reminded me of Famous Recipe Fried Chicken. My family only ate Famous Recipe a few times a year. It was our go-to food for family reunions. Seeing the chicken reminded me of the last time I set foot in a Famous Recipe. I was probably about 12 years old.

We were on our way to the reunion. We stopped to get the chicken and I got out of the car to go into the restaurant with my mom. 

I was wearing this way cool shirt that I'd gotten out of a hand-me-down bag from some relatives. It was polyester and looked like it was a quilted pattern of reds, yellows, blues. I remember plaid and some white flowers on it, I think. It buttoned down the front. I think I wore it with denim shorts. I LOVED that shirt. 

That is, until we walked into the restaurant and walked up to the counter. The high schoolers working behind the counter were all trying very hard to stifle their laughter as they took our order. I didn't immediately see what they were laughing out. But then I saw it:

My new-to-me, colorful, patterned favorite shirt was really a Famous Recipe Chicken uniform!

Did you have a Buzz or a Woody?

I saw Toy Story 3 this morning. I went by myself while rest of my family (who'd already seen TS3) went to see The Last Airbender, which I had no interest in seeing. I was warned in advance to bring tissues. I didn't. And I didn't need them. It's not that I didn't find the ending touching. I did, just not tearfully so. But the movie did make me think about the toys from my childhood.

Unless I just have a really bad memory, I can't think of any toys that I was really attached to. I had a very soft, stuffed koala bear that I remember because my dog chewed off one of the legs. I don't remember the bear before its leg was chewed off. I don't recall the day or the circumstances surrounding the canine attack. I just remember the rough edges of what was left behind, the peachy-orange of stuffing poking out.

We had blocks that were stored in a white cotton sack with a drawstring. I really liked the blocks, but they weren't the kind of toy that you would take to bed with you.

I did have a Barbie phase that I do remember fondly. We lived in Richmond, Indiana. My friend Paige lived across the street and we played Barbies at her house quite often. It seems that Paige's parents were always decorating something in the house, so we would take scraps of carpet and wallpaper and make our own Barbie houses out of cardboard boxes. It seems that we played Barbies in her basement for a long time, every day, listening to the "Free to Be You and Me" album on the record player.

But for as much as I remember enjoying the Barbies, I don't think I ever tucked them in with me at night, took them to church or propped them up at the dinner table next to me. And when we moved from Indiana to Ohio when I was nine, my Barbies mysteriously disappeared. I never saw them again and, oddly, I wasn't upset.

My kids are the same way. We've never had to drive back to some hotel or even a friend's house to retrieve a well-loved doll or stuff animal left behind. Annie had a Bitty Baby, but she wasn't particularly attached. When Charlie was 2, he asked Santa for a Nutcracker and a doll baby. Santa delivered a Beanie Baby Kid dressed in a soccer uniform (a compromise between Mr. and Mrs. Claus). He was happy to have him on Christmas morning, but forgot about him soon after. Robbie has come the closest to having an Andy-like relationship with a toy. When he was a toddler and preschooler, he had Eddie, a Fisher Price little people doll, that he would sleep with and take for nap time at Mother's Day Out. But once Robbie discovered dinosaurs, Eddie lost his appeal. Eddie is still around, as is Bitty Baby and "Charlie," but mostly because they remind me of when my kids were little. I think I am more connected to my children's toys than I ever was to my own or they were attached to them.

I know some kids do have ties to their toys. Annie's friend Olivia had a pink bear named, of all things, Pinka, that went everywhere with her. But for some reason, that's just never been true for me or my children. Maybe that's why I didn't get teary at the end of Toy Story 3. Or maybe I just haven't met the right toy yet.

Did you have a Buzz or Woody or some kind of toy that you were attached to? Do you still have it?

Flashback

Last night was a b-e-a-u-tiful night (ok, a little cooler than I would have liked, but sunny and clear) so the kids and I walked down to the neighborhood playground.

Annie wanted to swing. Robbie wanted me to chase him. He said I was the fox and he was the gingerbread baby (Jan Brett books, anyone?). So I did. We ran all over the playground and laughed. He would climb up the slide into the tunnel and I would reach in to try to pinch him.

When Charlie joined us (he'd stayed behind to finish up his homework), Charlie became the fox and I got on the swings. If there are two kid things I love, it's swinging and coloring with crayons -- but that's another blog post.

Anyway, at some point in all that running around and swinging, I started remembering days before on the playground, when it was a little Charlie who was hiding in the tunnels, waiting for me to tweak his little side. I remembered when Annie was 2-1/2 and Charlie was just days old and we were on the playground, letting her run off some of that toddler energy. When the playground equipment seemed too big for their little selves, so much so that I would talk with other parents about how I wished they could put in some toddler-sized climbers.

Then I looked around and thought, "how did these kids get so big, so fast?"

We took the long way home, enjoying the extra sun delivered by daylight savings time. About 2 blocks from home, as Charlie and I were talking, he slipped his hand in mine and we walked that way the rest of the way home. Guess he's not so big -- not too big for holding hands with his mom, anwway -- after all.

What will you remember?

Annie and I were out buying school supplies and bras (that's a WHOLE 'nuther post!) last weekend. We stopped to grab a bite to eat and for some reason I asked her when she is 40 years old, what does she think she'll remember the most about certain people in her life.

Actually, the initial question was what will she remember about ME (I'm kind of self-centered like that). Here's what she said:

Me:

"I'll remember how you are always behind your laptop." (Ouch! Did she really just say that? How's that for a ringing endorsement for reduced screen time?)

"I'll remember that when there's no radio on in the car, you sing Catholic songs really loudly." (At least she didn't say "badly.")

"And I'll remember that you like to pop my zits and blackheads." (Did I really just type that out here in this very public space? Let me note that it's not that I enjoy this task, it's just that the OCD side of me is driven batty by the sight of blemishes on the faces of those I love. If you don't live in my house, don't worry, I won't attack your zits. And I don't even pop Annie's that often -- she's strong enough to fight me off.)

Certain that I didn't want to hear any more about what she'll remember about me, I asked about Mike.

"I'll remember that he teaches my brothers inappropriate things." (Perhaps its a matter of judgement whether teaching small boys to belch the alphabet is inappropriate?) "And that he 'tries' to dance to be cool and he knows a lot about computers and everything about Star Trek."

Between the two of us, raising three normal and well-adjusted kids is gonna be a crapshoot. Still, I was enjoying the conversation, so I went on. I didn't ask about her brothers because I didn't want her to say something she might regret one day. So I moved on to the grandparents.

Grandpa? "Oh, (insert giggle here) I will always remember his crazy, long curly eyebrows." (I was braced for the "he chases us with boogers" comment, but that would fit under inappropriate things above, I guess.

Grandma? "She is always SO busy. And she can fix a lot of stuff." (Tru dat. And fix them with nothing more than a paper clip and a rubber band on most occasions!)

What about Poppo and GoGo -- Mike's parents -- I wondered? What will you remember about them?

"I'll remember that Poppo really likes poetry and going for walks outside and being in the garden. And GoGo likes to have fun and take us places. And, oh yeah, for an old lady she sure cusses a lot."

Guess as a group, we bring a whole new meaning to the word "legacy."

What do you remember about your parents and grandparents.

Poor Adam & Eve

This morning on the way to basketball camp, Charlie was incredibly talkative. I can't exactly tell you everything he was talking about because sometimes when the kids are chattering on, I tune them out. Surprising, I know. But true.

By the time we were nearing camp, he was talking about Adam and Eve. I'm not sure how he wound his way to that topic, but we talked about Eve being tricked by the snake, about how they were naked and didn't know it, and how when they figured out they were naked, they used leaves to make clothes.

I was trying to re-trace how we'd gotten around to this conversation when I heard Charlie say, "I feel sorry for Adam and Eve."

"You do? Why?" I asked.

"Because when Adam and Eve were created, they were already adults. They never got to be kids."

And that one small statement made me feel good inside, knowing that we must be doing something right for Charlie to recognize the joy in being a kid.

One of my favorite memories as a kid was when my mom treated us to a bus ride downtown and a visit to the Coca-Cola museum that was in the Arcade Square in downtown Dayton. I also loved walking by myself to the library a couple times a week (it was a different world then!) and checking out as many books as I could carry home.

What did you love about being a kid?