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Smells of yesterday worth one more sniff
(by Christine Thome - July 09, 2009)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
Smells of yesterday worth one more sniff
The sun did not shine.
It was too wet to play.
So we sat in the house
all that cold, cold, wet day.
Too wet to go out.
And too cold to play ball.
So we sat in the house.
We did nothing at all.
Like Sally and her brother in Dr. Seuss's "Cat in the Hat," I wish I had a mischievous cat to entertain my children during that last cold, rainy week of June. Now that I think about it, they were entertained by Thing One and Thing Two -- but I think the media refers to them as John and Kate.
Concerned that my children's DNA was going to mutate and become compatible with the leather couches, I announced that we were turning the TV off and cleaning the basement.
"Really, Mom?" My children yelled with delight. "Wow! We've been begging you to let us to clean the basement for years. You're the best mom ever."
OK, that's not even close to what they said. But if you've ever asked your children to clean the basement, then you know exactly what they did say.
"Come on," I pleaded. "It will be fun."
OK, I didn't say that either. I think I swore and threatened them with bodily harm. But it worked. They filed after me into the basement.
"What do you want me to do with this box of old clothes?" my son asked as he dropped it with a dusty thud at my feet.
As I searched through the box, I held up the Chenille overalls that the twins wore for their 2-year-old pictures, a winter hat my mom knitted my daughter when she was 3 and beautiful Easter dresses from way too many years ago.
For several minutes, I held those clothes close to my face. Breathing deeply, I could smell the musty, damp basement, but, even more prominently, I could smell memories. In my twins' overalls, I could still smell the baby powder and fresh scent of a toddler who has just been bathed. In the hat, I could smell my daughter's hair as it tickled my nose when she snuggled on my lap. I could even smell the chocolate bunnies that stained the Easter dresses.
As I dug deeper into the box, I caught a glimpse of a tattered, blue piece of cloth.
Without touching it, I stood up, looked at my son and gave him a slight smile.
"What?" he asked.
I nodded to the box, and, as he bent his tall, lanky frame over the box, he saw it too. With a gasp, he grabbed the blue cloth, yanked it out of the box and immediately covered his face with it.
"My blankie! This is my blankie! I thought you threw it out."
"I would never throw away your blankie," I said quietly.
For years, we called my son Linus, because he never went anywhere without his blue blankie. With a pacifier in his mouth and blankie over his shoulder, he could conquer the world. That blankie got him through years of painful earaches and rehabilitative speech therapy and gave him security in a world that was filled with strange sounds and uncertainty.
Just like I had forgotten about all the doctors' appointments and speech-therapy sessions, I don't remember when he gave up his blankie.
But I was suddenly overcome with memories of rocking him in my lap, his blue blankie wrapped around him and his sore ears pressed tightly to my warm body. I remember the smell of his hair and the sound of him sucking his pacifier. And I remember thinking he would always stay that small.
As I looked up at him, the blue blankie that used to drag on the ground when he was little was now smaller than the shirt he wore. The boy I thought would stay small forever now towered over me.
"What do you want to do with blankie?" I asked him.
"I'm going to put it back in the box," he said as he held it up to his face one more time before folding it and gently placing it back where he found it. "I know where it is."
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