Autumn, which was just around the corner only a few short weeks ago, appears to have arrived—well—just about as quickly as every other season this year. Boy’s tenth birthday didn’t so much as sneak up on us as it did smoothly float its way down the river of life not unlike a moccasin would on the Edisto. Of course, come to think of it, those water moccasins are a sneaky bunch.
Sorry if that metaphor–uh, simile–makes no sense; I’m trying to get my groove back here. It’s a process.
What was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. Autumn.
Last weekend, Boy and I picked up his birthday cake from Publix.
Even with all of the baking that I do, I never make the kids’ cakes for their birthdays. It’s a personal policy, and if you ask why I implemented it, then I’ll have to honestly tell you that I don’t know exactly why. It probably has something to do with the fact that Boy prefers store-bought cake to homemade. He prefers homemade macaroni to the kind in the blue box, so I’ll accept his cake preferences and call it a win. Besides, Publix’s cakes are pretty tasty, so who can blame him?
Of course, now I’ve wandered off of the path of my intended topic once again.
We were picking up his birthday cake and other various items for his weekend celebration—family over to eat lunch and then five (counting the Birthday Boy) nine and ten-year-olds to spend the night. It sounds worse than it was, trust me. We were standing in the floral department, picking out a balloon, which Boy has asked for a million and one times over the last nine years and I have never until that moment relented.
Of course, it isn’t exactly relenting when I’m the one who led him to the balloons in the first place mostly because he didn’t ask this time. His, “I get a balloon? Are you sure??? Thank you, Mom! Thank you!” made it totally worth the years of mean Mommydom and $2.99 sale price. Yeah, I realize that makes me seem awful, but I can live with that.
So while we were standing there waiting for the extremely nice Publix lady to fill up the balloon, I realized that I smelled something ridiculously amazing. I’m talking about a smell that I only associate with the cool deliciousness that is autumn. I told boy I’d be right back—it was after all only two feet away in plain sight—and ten seconds later I returned with a Cinnamon Broom.
Do they have those where you live?
It’s just a little decorative broom that smells like cinnamon. Hang it in your house and within minutes every square inch of your home smells like you either stuck your nose in a package of Big Red chewing gum or drowned yourself in a vat of Goldschläger, but I digress.
Everywhere we went I the store, people exclaimed, “Oh, they have the cinnamon brooms!” and “It’s not Fall until the cinnamon brooms are out.” What I’m saying here is that I’m not the only one who sees the heralding of cool, crisp autumn replete with its deep blue cloudless skies in a simple straw broom that overwhelms the olfactory system with cinnamon essential oils.
Right now at this very moment, my house smells like autumn. It makes knowing that I am mom to a ten-year-old a little easier to bear.
Not that being a mom to either child is difficult at all.
Don’t you dare tell me about the next ten years.