First College Crisis Averted

Less than a month in college, and my daughter’s first crisis has arisen.  I was positive the first desperate call/text/skype I received was going to be the homesickness call/text/skype the school warned us about at Orientation.  Like a true, blue, new Sorority mom I rehearsed, and prepared myself for that call.  This text, however, completely stops me in my tracks.

“MA!  MY ROOM SMELLS LIKE RAMEN!  I DON’T EVEN EAT RAMEN!”

No “Lol”, LMAO”, “Ha, ha”, or “Hee hee”; nothing even remotely resembling a sense of humor.  I quickly catch on that a dorm room that smells like the one right next to yours is cause for panic, is unthinkable, and requires immediate attention.  But, as I stare at her urgent text I begin to think about the reply I really want to send.  It would probably go something like this:

“Dear Precious One…I have received your urgent message regarding the Ramen noodle emergency, and the apparent anxiety you are experiencing due to this distressing odor.  However, if I’m being completely honest I’m a bit perplexed, and this is why. 

I have been your mother for 18 years, but never shared with you the endless degrees I have earned as a student who has attended, and continues to attend the University of Motherhood.  I won’t bore you with all of them, but I believe there is one I’ve earned that will reassure you I feel your pain, and am more than capable of helping you through this first college roadblock.  I hold an MBA in Toe Curling, Eye Watering, Gag Inducing, Unidentifiable Odors.  Excuse me if I sound a little excitable but, RAMEN?!?! 

Ramen would have smelled like Thanksgiving Dinner compared to the “Day After Your Birthday Sleepover” odors that wafted from under your bedroom door.  Stale whipped cream icing on a half devoured cake, bowls of day old popcorn, chips and dip, and flat soda with a pretzel floating on top, scattered around a darkened bedroom with 6 sleeping beauties in sleeping bags, who have literally competed all night to crown the winners of the LBLF (Loudest Belch/Longest Fart) Olympiad.  Do I even have to describe that combination with the morning breath you all woke up with?  Mrs. Butterworth herself cried at the breakfast table that morning.

Ramen would have been like a walk through the Botanical Gardens on a sunny spring day compared to the softball equipment that was packed in the car AFTER a weeklong tournament.  You and your father seemed completely oblivious to the wretchedness that escaped from those ball bags, bat bags, and the mother of all funk, the equipment bag…cleats, helmet, and catcher’s equipment stuffed into a hot, black bag after playing on a 100 degree day.  How could you BOTH be immune to the stench that lived in that bag?  To this day I find myself wondering how it didn’t explode from the noxious fumes coming from just your cleats alone.  Washing my face in chopped onions wouldn’t have made my eyes water more than unpacking that bag.

As you became a teenager, your room became your haven.  For me it was like being drafted into the Army.  I didn’t want to go, but I had a duty to uphold.  Walking through the landmine of discarded pants, sweatshirts, pajamas, unmentionables, and socks I swore would burn the retinas from my eyes the odor was so stingingly bad, I learned that holding your nose doesn’t prevent you from being affected by your child’s funk.  Holding your nose does one thing and one thing only; it forces you to “taste” the funk.  The funk you are trying so desperately not to inhale actually lays on your tongue, and temporarily paralyzes your tastebuds.  I would eat a semester’s worth of Ramen in one sitting then to ever have to taste the old socks that hid under your bed.  Add that to the lingering scent of perfume, and deodorant (did you wear every bottle you ever owned at once, and was it really necessary to put two inches of deodorant under your arms everyday?), and I promise you will find yourself staggering into the bathroom, shooting water up into your nostrils, just as I did, swearing your nose hairs have been burned.

These are mere samplings of the assaults my senses have endured raising you, my precious one.  Put your big girl panties on, and start accepting the world is not always going to smell the way you prefer. You wanted to be an adult!  Let me be the first to welcome you with open arms to the wonderful world of funk!  Love you xoxo…”

Of course what I actually text messaged back was “Awww…I’m sorry honey.  Want me to send a can of Febreeze?”  As her mom, I have always felt it was my duty to reminisce, and talk about the good stuff.  Why inform or remind her of the moments I pulled my hair out, cursed my mother for wishing a daughter “just like me” on me, or literally choked on the very funk I was just thinking about?  A good mother keeps those secrets to herself, never to be revealed to anyone, least of all her precious child. 

So after conquering her first college crisis, I poured myself a refreshing glass of wine, lit some candles, and enjoyed a delectable bowl of Ramen.  Some moments are just worth savoring.