Underneath my laptop I have one of those annoying magazine inserts that advertise perfumes. I usually yank them out of the magazine and give them to Jenny to smell. Then we giggle about what kind of person would actually wear that scent. But this one that I kept reminds me of my long-distance friend. I think the heat from the laptop warms it up a bit. Once in awhile I hit a keystroke and a little whiff of the scent comes at me. It’s almost like he’s standing right behind me. I wish I knew which keystroke was the magic stroke to warm up the scent. I guess the randomness of it is what makes it sweet.
The kids and I are always talking about how something smells. I can remember Will at his third birthday. He was seriously into his sniffing phase. Each present he opened couldn’t be enjoyed until he’d thoroughly smelled it. He’s gotten a little more discreet about how he smells things, by now. And Jenny often decides whether or not she likes someone based on their scent.
The sense of smell is incredibly powerful. I’m always fascinated by the memories that are conjured up by a particular smell. Lime and cilantro always transports me to Isla Mujeres. A freshly sharpened pencil and it’s Fall and the first day of school. It’s not that the kids and I are part canine. It’s more that we are aware of scents, and we make connections that seem to anchor those scents to a time or place.
And so it happened that the other morning we were bumping around the house. The wood stove was cranked. Will had just made a killer batch of pancakes. I was walking down the hallway just as the water heater kicked on, leaving that faint smell of gas in the air. The scents of warm pancakes, coffee, smoke from the wood stove, a little gas fume and laundry detergent all converged in the same spot in the hallway. I stopped in my tracks. It was like I was in a vortex that sent me back to 1966. I was four years old in pigtails at my grandma and grandpa’s. It wasn’t about a certain event. It was about a place and a feeling. It was safe, warm and cozy, and I must have had a full belly — always did, in fact, at grandma’s.
So here I was, looking at four year old me. I wanted to get down on the floor with me and play dolls, all the while whispering in my ear. “Don’t be so nice all the time. You can be a good girl, but don’t jump so high and run so fast to please. Don’t forget to make sure that you are happy, too. Being a pleaser makes you a target for a Narcissist.” I wasn’t going to tell me to walk around with my hands on my hips, sticking my tongue out at everybody in my path. I wasn’t going to tell me to start kicking some of ‘em in the shins. But I wanted to tell me that they would all still like me even if I wasn’t so perfect all the time. And if they didn’t still like me, then, so what. I would still be just fine.
In my efforts to help Will and Jenny navigate their relationship with their dad, I often find myself reminding them to acknowledge their own feelings. They are compassionate little people. They are both thoughtful and sensitive. I’m often hearing, “Mom, I didn’t really want to do that or say that, but I didn’t want to hurt dad’s feelings.” Then, one of them will say, “How come dad never worries about our feelings?” It’s a delicate balance teaching them to be kind, but also protective of their own feelings. I’m proud of them when they get the courage to politely tell someone that they feel slighted. I encourage them to be honest. But they are too schooled in all the costs of being honest with their dad. A lot of times it’s just easier to be nice. And then pretty soon, they’ve created the habits of being nice and being doormats. And I might as well paint little targets on their beautiful foreheads.
So, back at grandma and grandpa’s, I’ll give me a quick hug. And I’ll grab a jar of grandma’s spaghetti sauce on my way back to 2009. Her secret ingredient is Allspice. Can you smell it? I’m sure heaven smells just like grandma’s sauce.
Tags: child of narcissist, humor, life, love, narcissism, narcissistic behavior, NPD, survive
