Breakfast, anyone?

I'm well aware that this is a blog about mommy stuff and not necessarily wifey stuff. But since all children have fathers somewhere, and many mothers have husbands, I think a good can-you-believe-my-husband story is in order once in a while. And this is also about a mother (that would be me) almost losing her mind, so I think it qualifies.

Not long after our return from Christmas travels, which would also be not long after Eliza died (you'll see why that's important soon), I started noticing a maple syrup smell once in a while when our heat kicked on (Okay, some of you--all of you?--are now saying, I've heard this already!). It was at random times and in random locations, especially near the computer. At first, I thought maybe Luke had somehow gotten some syrup on the computer chair (which is, incidentally, upstairs, far from the kitchen), but I couldn't locate the smell in the chair. In fact, I only smelled it sometimes, and only when the heat kicked on. Sometimes, I thought I smelled it on Sam, when he came to wake me up to say goodbye before he left for work; he never knew what I was talking about. Once, I thought I'd located it in the microwave, of all places, which I cleaned thoroughly to no avail.

And neither Sam nor Luke ever smelled it.

(So here's where the part about Eliza dying becomes important).

I started to think I was losing it. Why not, really? Three years of sleep deprivation plus indescribable grief; I had read plenty about what kinds of weird things sometimes happen to people who lose children. One mother I read about couldn't taste a thing for months. Why couldn't weird smells fall into the same category?

So I decided to keep quiet about the smell. I wouldn't want to reveal my insanity, after all. And then it seemed to go away, or maybe it was the horrible congestion from my cold that masked it. Either way, I started to think I might someday be able to eat a pancake again (Did I mention that I hate maple syrup? So this wasn't helping).

And then, a couple weeks after it started and then waned, the smell was back (coincidentally, at the same time as I recovered from my cold). Stronger. I got worried. I started asking Sam and Luke again if they smelled it, and Luke (mama-pleaser that he is) thought maybe he did. I resorted to asking others who came into my house, "What does it smell like in here?" One said, "Something good! Something sweet...". Another: "Pancakes!"

I was vindicated. My heat was definitely--somehow--emanating a maple syrup odor. My poor husband suffered from many days of, "Can't you smell it?" and "But So-and-So could! How can you not?"

So what did I do? What would you do, my 21st century blog-reading friend? Of course. I googled it.

And the results were even more vindicating: okay, so I didn't exactly find an answer to what it means if your HOUSE heat smells like maple syrup, but apparently, if your car heat smells like maple syrup, you need to get your coolant checked. And my house heat pump has coolant, too, right? I thought I had it all figured out. (Incidentally, there was also a big scare in Manhattan some time ago when lots of people smelled maple syrup; though there was no clear connection, the suggestion by some that it had been a terrorist attack only fueled my certainty that there was most definitely something wrong.)

So I called Sam at work, both ecstatic and in a panic. "I think we have a coolant leak! I've got to call a heat repair guy!" The smell was worse that day than it had been yet. And I had a terrible headache, evidence, I was sure, that I was being slowly poisoned by burning leaking coolant (you'll remember that grief/paranoia connection here, no doubt). He agreed, and I set about the task of finding someone to fix my heat.

I don't like calling repairmen. At all. Now picture me calling several, trying to find someone who could come soon (to put a quick end to the slow poisoning, of course) and not charge an arm and a leg for the service call.

"What's wrong with the heat? Blowing cold, or not blowing at all?"
"Umm, it smells like maple syrup. Have you ever heard of that?"
Inevitable stifled laugh, "No, can't say I have."

And so it went. Those weren't my favorite phone calls. But doggone it, I had a problem, and I was going to be the one to save my family.

Two days later, the chosen repairman finally came. For the record, he was very kind. He admitted he smelled something; in fact, he could taste something because his dental work was sensitive to toxic substances. I kid you not. Toxic substances. I was definitely going to be vindicated.

Two hours and as many hundreds of dollars later (because, of course, there was something else that needed fixing), he had no answer to my maple syrup smell. No coolant leak. No burned out something-or-others. I had instructions to open the windows, run the fans, change the filters, etc. But no answers. It was over.

And the next day, when I got up at 7am, Sam long gone to work as usual, the smell was worse than ever. Frantic, I called him at work: "Did you smell it? You MUST have smelled it before you left! It's so strong this morning!"

Came Sam's absolutely calm, nonchalant answer: "Oh, that? That's just the oatmeal I ate for breakfast."

Insert dramatic pause.

Feigning equal calm, I asked, "Oatmeal? What do you mean, oatmeal?", all the while making my way to the pantry. I never buy oatmeal. None of us likes oatmeal (except Sam, apparently). "You mean, this oatmeal?!? This MAPLE SYRUP AND BROWN SUGAR instant microwavable oatmeal, which is almost gone?!? This oatmeal I've never seen before?" (Which, incidentally, was purchased and delivered by lovely friends--who deny any involvement--along with other groceries shortly after Eliza died). "HAVE YOU BEEN EATING THIS EVERY DAY?" Needless to say, I had lost my feigned nonchalance...and apparently, Sam had taken notice.

"Well, not every day..."

We like to think we can blame all our insane moments on our children. Thank you, my dear husband, for reminding me that it's not ALL their fault.