Green Palmolive

Do you ever have one of those moments where you are kind of caught off guard by a mental image of your past...and you don't want to entertain the image in your head by thinking about it too long but at the same time, you try to remember every detail?

I was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, gazing out the window when a long, lost memory came into my mind. It was a personal glimpse back in time and my sister, Robin, was standing at her kitchen sink, washing dishes, and gazing out the window.

They say that our sense of smell is the sense most closely connected to our memory. I had purchased the green Palmolive dish soap because the store was out of the purple AND orange Palmolive. Apparently there was some kind of major run on purple and orange Palmolive that I was unaware of, so there I was with the green. The green Palmolive has not changed in 20 plus years. I am sure of this. Robin used the green Palmolive when I was a kid and I remember that smell...

My Palmolive memory took me back to being a teenager and visiting Robin and her family. Robin was (is) such an amazing wife and mother. She was a stay-at-home mom while her kids were young and got up at o'dark thirty every, single day to make biscuits from scratch for her husband because that made him happy. (Think on that for a second...biscuits from SCRATCH...EVERY morning...) He would go on to work as the rest of us slept and Robin would await the "second seating". When the kids would get up and come to breakfast, my niece, Kathren, would slather butter on her biscuit and then sprinkle brown sugar all over it. My nephew, Kyle, went "old-school" like his Auntie, and we would go for the butter and strawberry jam. Both toppings, also slathered. Mmmmmmm. Sitting here, being as detailed as I can so that you can see this kitchen table full of hungry, little people being doted on by a young, beautiful, blonde mom who merely enjoyed making others happy, I can almost smell the biscuits baking and my tummy is beginning to rumble.

The four of us would sit around the table and talk, laugh, and cut up. With her husband gone to work, we had all day to do anything or nothing, and both were equally enjoyable. I loved being there. I loved being with Kathren and Kyle and visiting other family "up the road"...but mostly I loved watching Robin...learning from her without even realizing it...taking mental notes of how to be funny but not hurtful, beautiful but not haughty, and fine-tuning a self-deprecating humor that has actually served me quite well in making others laugh. I wanted to be like Robin. I thought she was the prettiest, funniest, most popular and most loved person on the planet...because she was to me.

I found myself recalling all sorts of things as I allowed my mind to wander through the Palmolive memory but mostly I recalled just wanting to grow up and be like Robin. She had everything. Every time they would move, the houses got bigger and more elaborate. Her husband was a good provider and as the kids went on to school, Robin went to work, too. Her kids were healthy and happy. She had a ton of friends and people literally sought her out to be with her, to be entertained by her. Her wit was clever and quick. Nobody could top it. She had the ability to make people laugh despite their bad day or bad news. Robin's hugs melted away the worst fears, biggest problems, and that feeling you get when you realize you are an orphan for the first time...

It was not until years and years later that I found out all sorts of things that still make me sad about Robin and what her life was really like. Her reality was just like everyone else's...perfect on Sunday morning, sitting in church with all the other perfect people living perfect lives with no problems, no concerns, and no pain. Just a perfect life in a perfect house with a perfect husband and all smiles. Maybe you attended a church like that...maybe you still do...but what I came to find out through my own life is that Sunday people are not Monday's reality. Don't get me wrong, I put on the same show for years and years...until about almost three years ago when the reality I had created for myself crashed in around me...

That's when it happens. That's when you stand in your kitchen, washing the dishes with green Palmolive and gaze out the window as you contemplate the realities of your own life. The ones no one knows about unless you tell them, and you never do. The realities that you think are yours and yours alone because certainly, the rest of the world is happy, fulfilled, and you know, "perfect", as in "Sunday-morning-sitting-in-the-exact-same-church-pew-you-have-sat-in-for-the-past-several-years-making-small-talk-about-things-that-don't-really-matter-because-if-you-get-too-personal-the-dam-will-break-and-then-everyone-will-know-that-your-life-isn't-perfect"-perfect.

Maybe it was just Robin and I who tried very hard to have others believe we were as perfect on the inside as people thought we were on the outside. Maybe...but I doubt it.

I am not going to go into all sorts of detail about my reality or Robin's, but I will tell you that she remains the prettiest, funniest, most popular and most loved person on the planet...because she is to me...and when I find myself missing her, which is a lot, all I have to do is fill up the sink with sudsy, hot water, wash some dishes, and breathe deeply the scent of green Palmolive...and my reality gets better.