Today’s installment of Things I Love may seem obvious as first, but there’s something dwelling beneath the surface here. We recently got a package from my sister, and while everyone loves receiving a package in the mail, that isn’t my topic. Take a deep breath and enjoy.
Things I Love: The Smell of My Sister’s House.
You know how everyone has their own smell? Of course you do, that’s not just my own weird overly sensitive thing? Right?
I thought so. Okay, back to the pleasant mail delivery.
As the packing tape released it’s final squeaks and cardboard dust particles spread across the kitchen floor the first hints of the Nebraskans’ cozy split-level reached our noses. The box – which was filled with birthday gifts, old maternity clothes (NOT to wear, but to cut into a memory quilt for the no-longer-in-utero children that were once hidden under it’s voluminous , yet taut fabric,) and some baby things – was also teeming with Stacy Scent.
It’s dark and figgy and savory and warm and wraps itself around you like a hug that reaches right up through your nostrils. In a delightful way, of course. The contents of that package all bore the mark of their origin and the boys and I spent a good portion of the day squishing our faces in for a quick hit of their family’s presence.
Simeon has been aware of his aunt’s odorous ambiance for several years now. Once, after she sent me some maternity clothing that could be worn without shame or vice I threw on some capris and a tank straight from the box. The first thing a barely 3-yr-old Simeon said to me was, “I like your green pants and your yellow shirt.” While I applauded his knowledge of colors, and questioned my own fashion sense, he gave me a big leg hug and then continued his sensory observation with, “Oh! You smell just like Aunt Stacy!” The remainder of the day he stayed close at hand, or leg, as the case may be, for frequent sniffs of his beloved aunt’s pants.
I know exactly how he feels. I sometimes buy “her scent” of body wash in hopes of catching a whiff of my sister on those days when I need a little moral support. The bonus side-effect is that lathering up also gets a few extra hugs out of the kids.
This nose-worthy accomplishment doesn’t belong solely to Simeon, though. Abraham used it just the other day. I was helping him tie his new-to-him fall shoes (Note to self: teach your children to tie their own shoes. Soon. Now.) when I mentioned that I couldn’t recall what generous party had bestowed them on us. Abe didn’t hesitate. He picked up the remaining shoe, stuck his nose deep in its footy cavern, inhaled loudly and made his judgment, “It doesn’t smell like Owen and Joe. It smells like Nathan.”
So there you have it folks. Whether we have highly sensitive olfactory nerves, or my sister and her household just smell really, really good we may never know. But then again, maybe you don’t want to know. Maybe you wish that you could erase what you already know.
Wow, I’m not at all sorry that I wrote this post.
By the way, could you please forget that I implied that I think you smell?
A nose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Tags: Abraham, Simeon, smells, Stacy, things I love
Christina Joy
Stacy
...and we laughed and laughed. 