The olfactory nerve is located very close to the amygdala, the area of the brain that is connected to the experience of emotion as well as emotional memory. The actual ability to smell is therefore highly linked to memory.
The mother has a fondness in her heart for pancakes. Growing up, her father made them faithfully each Sunday morning. You would think after 18 years they would have lost their wonderment but to a child there is something strangely comforting in predictable pancakery (do not attempt to verify this word in Webster’s dictionary.)
Seeing her father in his signature checkered shirt, mixing the ingredients from memory in his orange bowl, and pouring the batter onto the hot griddle, is a delightful childhood memory. In truth, pancakes don’t really taste like anything extraordinary but when you combine milk, egg, flour and oil together and bring it to the perfect 375 degree temperature, the subsequent baking smell that ethereally filled the air, while the mixture reached that perfect golden brown hue, quite literally stopped time and for a moment all was right with the world.
The mother had promised the children Sunday morning pancakes if they all were on their best going to bed behavior the night before. After enduring the annual family photo session, which the mother insists upon each year and the father tolerates as a gift of sacrificial love for the mother, the parents desperately needed a resistance free bed time. The pancake catalyst seemed a good agent to motivate the boy, the blonde, and the brunette. Challenge accepted.
This Sunday morning, not unlike so many others, the brunette snaps the parents from their quasi-restful slumber, with her morning banshee wail at 6:32 am piercing through the baby monitor. The mother shoots straight up in her bed simply muttering “she is awake” as if it were a ritualistic call to begin their day. The parents are fairly certain after they leave this season of toddlerhood, traditional cathedral bell or chirping bird alarm clocks will never be able to pull them out of their future sleep states with the same effectiveness as the brunette’s banshee wail battle cry.
The mother cannot back it up psychologically but she is fairly certain that the punk rock movement could find its genesis roots back to toddlers who literally scream themselves awake each morning. That kind of intense fuel has to seek creative outlets in order to navigate an adulthood later on in life in which the act of screaming for really no reason at all is considered socially unacceptable behavior.
The day begins.
The father quickly retrieves the brunette in an effort to minimize the domino wake up affect of the other children, while the mother heads to the bathroom for her ritualistic daily preparations. The mother, in an effort to maintain some kind of a personal stronghold for the sake of her own individuality, insists on daily doing her hair, full make up and getting dressed in an attire she has come to term “park chic” which roughly consists of jeans and a t-shirt or anything that would be worn in the escort of small children on an outdoor adventure.
The mother tries to convince the father that this preparation process will be quick only taking her 22 minutes (otherwise known as the length of any Disney or PBS generated show) in truth it takes her more like 37 minutes and by the time the bathroom room door is opened, she finds the children have one by one systematically joined the father on the large king sized bed waiting for her to finish and make them the much anticipated pancakes.
“Alright people, let’s move,” the mother proclaims and in a synchronized gymnastic style affect the children immediately spin and spill over the sides of the bed and head for the stairs. The mother is thrilled…the pancakes seem to be serving as a cooperation catalyst.
The boy is wearing his signature superhero pajamas and has managed to dawn a cape already at 7:15 in the morning making it quite evident he is ready for his day of adventure and imagination. The blonde, who seems to possess some sort of quasi glycemic instability always has an intense scowl on her face before the breakfast meal and finds herself annoyed by any attempts made by the parents to acquisition hugs or declarations of affection from her. To greater compound things, she has zero tolerance for any shenanigans the brunette might try and undertake. The blonde needs food to become the civilized version of herself. The brunette unfortunately is brimming with shenanigans and already possessing a twinkle in her eye and a spring in her steps, sprints towards the stairs.
Somehow the blonde and the brunette believe the mother, during the 37 minutes she was sequestered away in the bathroom chamber, not only got ready but also secretly transported herself downstairs and made the pancakes. While the mother appreciates the “I dream of Jeannie” abilities the children perceive her to have, they are disappointed to see no such pancakes yet exist on the table, and realize they are going to have to demonstrate that dreaded trait not worn well on toddlers…..patience. Even pancakes might not be a strong enough catalyst for that to take place successfully.
The mother works with as much speed as possible but the simple task of making pancakes is made all the more challenging by the fact that the blonde and the brunette proclaim they want to be “helpers”. Helpful to them does not mean setting the table as the mother repeatedly keeps requesting, instead it looks more like two girls shoving, nudging, and fighting over a single step stool that the blonde has retrieved for the bathroom and have elected to place directly in front of the hot griddle. (The mother makes a mental note to purchase a second stool.)
The boy, somehow oblivious to the squeals and screams from the blonde and the brunette, attempts to seek the mother’s attention by discussing amazing factoids about the Star Wars Clone Wars and repeatedly attempts to demonstrate his bow staff skills insisting she both acknowledge and verbally praise each performance.
The baby simply sits in her high chair watching all the action around her. She looks adoringly at the brother and questioningly at the blonde and the brunette. She smiles at the mother and then she drools….. which reminds her instantly want an amazing spit bubble blower she is and proceeds to entertain herself through a series of saliva induced sound affects for the next several minutes.
The mother constantly finds herself trying to remain one step ahead of the blonde and the brunette, while shuttling, stalling snacks to the baby, giving the boy the attention he seems to feel so essential at 7:30 in the morning…. all the while attempting to make the pancakes.
Suddenly the mother realizes…..Sunday morning pancakes are turning into quite an ordeal and it is taking everything within her power not to snap at the children and their growing intensity.
Instead she thinks about the real meaning behind all she is doing. The mother is creating a memory….not a breakfast. The experience of togetherness coupled by the smells of Sunday morning is truly her real goal and as she utters the words, “pancakes are ready,” this truth comes to light.
The boy stops taking. The blonde stops yelling. The brunette stops whining. The baby continues to blow bubbles as the others in harmony let out a “yeah!” The mother smiles. It’s not about the pancakes…..they simply serve as a catalyst….. it’s about the moment and in that moment much like it was for her so many years ago….all is right with the world.
The motherhood in technicolor memo: As parents I think it is easy to want to create perfect memories for our children. I would argue that our children do not remember all the things we do….they remember how we make them feel. As parents its important to realize it’s not about the creation of a perfect memory it’s about enjoying a moment which serves a catalyst for the memory.
Summer Smith is a speaker, writer, and motherhood blogger. She and her family are currently navigating the suburbs of Northern Virginia. As the mother to four young children, Summer maintains her sanity thanks to her sense of humor, copious amounts of coffee, and Amazon Prime. Maya Angelou once said, when reflecting on her childhood, that her mother left an impression like technicolor stars in the midnight sky. Influenced by these words, Summer blogs at her website Motherhood in Technicolor, and can also be found on her Motherhood in Technicolor Facebook page.