Lilacs And Absolutes

Ahhhh...I'm waxing philosophical again. Sorry, but it's gonna be directed at you. Yesterday was a "mama's day off" which translates to me doing about 6 hours of yard work. I've got my mid-west farmer's tan now...I'm "in" around here now for the next few months.

Philosophical Waxing #1:
What will H remember about me (subconsciously)? About her childhood? I know the big things, the things with her friends, first days of school etc...what about all that little stuff? All the stuff you can't even plan on wanting or shoulding remembering...Yesterday I was walking thru my yard, dragging a giant bag of dirt behind me. I all of a sudden couldn't stop myself from stopping, standing up and closing my eyes...I had passed one of my lilacs. See, in my home in another suburb until I was in 4th grade, we had lived in a split level - one of those where the upper floor juts out a bit over the lower floor. That was where my bedroom was, on the lower floor. My mother had a hedge of lilacs put in under that overhang. My mother also is one of those firm believers that even if it's 90 degrees out, the "breeze" will lower the house temp to a comfortable 75 or so (A Miracle! It's a Miracle that defies science!!! A Higher Being made that screening cool the air. Call the Vatican, the screens in each of my mother's past and present homes much be blessed! But I digress...) So, many, many a night I would lay there waaaaay too hot, smelling the lilacs.

And, it's not like the lilacs bring back that specific memory. I don't transport back to that peach bedroom. It took me years to figure out the draw of the lilacs. But they create a huge visceral reaction in me. I have to stop when I smell them...I have to take a pause in my day. To me, that's actually a huge gift - a pause in the crazy of life that we all seem to forget to take. Just a few seconds, but it's there.

My MIL is the opposite. Her Dad and Mom died 6 months apart when she was relatively young (20ish). She hates roses. Hates the smell. Almost gags. But you think about it, especially her Dad was a shocking death on top of a young death. She was pregnant with my husband at the time. When her mother died, she not only inherited her parents house, but also a minor brother that she, as a newly young mother and wife, had to also care for. No wonder she can't tolerate the smell...I can't imagine the amount of roses that she was surrounded by at those funerals and were sent to her home. The father was a doctor, well known in the area, I imagine those funeral homes overflowing all in white and red roses for some reason.

Another one for me...beer. Once upon a time, my Dad let me drink his beer, I was thinking it was ginger ale. I to this day, and 3germresnd years of age can't drink beer. I hate beer. I hate the smell of beer. That and gin and cognac, cannot drink them. Bleck. It's not like a giant mental scar, but years later, when I've tried beer, which I force myself to do every 5 years or so - I think it's wrong. I think it's supposed to taste linke ginger ale.

Other things...I feel the need to sing to Barry Manilow when I hear him, even though thankfully, it's only if some odd tv signal barrages my brain or something, cause I really do hate his music. But my mother loves Barry Manilow. She walked around the house, singing to it. Actually, this has affected me unbeknowest to me. I am the world's biggest car singer. I can't turn the radio on without treating it as a sing-along karaoke machine. I only am thankful that I don't feel this need when Neil Diamond pummels my brain. I may have gotten the compulsive need to sing from my mother, but I got much better taste in music from my Dad. Which, off topic, how the hell do I erase the words to Mandy from my very-important-to-me brain mass? I forget where my sunglasses are all the time...maybe if I freed up some of my mis-used hard drive space up in my cranium, I wouldn't forget important crap.

So. Getting back to my original question...what will it be about me that infect my child's brain on a subconscious level? Will she move to the big city to run from anything green, or will she end up with a farm and growing her own everything due to the future planned years of us gardening together? Will she feel the need to argue politics even if she agrees, just like me? Will she pause when she passes a bakery smells all the sweets baking? Will she compulsively make sure the labels of the cans face front at least enough so you can see what's in the kitchen cabinet as soon as you open the door?

I guess maybe it's hubris of mine to think that she'll develop most of her traits because of us parents that she got stuck with. Of course, with H, you can take this discussion to the next level...what will she pick up from us that she may not have been impressed upon if she had different parents than us. I know you can ask that about any kid, and I hate to question everything and how it will be affected by her adoption (Lord knows, I question stuff enough without even throwing the "A" word on top of it all.) But it's a possible question with adopted kids a bit more than the purely philosophical disscussion if the kid gets to grow up with the parents that created her/him. Is my kid destined to be affected by a smell? Does her biology lean her towards that, and if it's here, she smells the lilacs in my yard and gets the same reaction, or the cakes and tarts that I make will bring her back to another place? If she was back in China, she'd gain the same affection for another olfactory trigger? Or is it the experiences that make those triggers? What is she destined to latch on to, and what do we make her latch on to?

Sigh...I'm back to the ol' biology vs environment discussion again. How do I always get back there? I think it's because every day I'm amazed at this little computing and learning machine I have wandering around here, with Farmer Ted in her hand at all times.

Well, I've prattled on the whole time I've eaten my frozen lunch (really though, I do bake. Seriously.), I'll have to tackle the "absolutes" of the post title later...

Oh, BTW, we hate naps in this house now, and we've got our first molar pushing thru. It broke thru Saturday, and I have the holes in my index finger to prove it from trying to stick my finger in past all those well established teeth in the front.