You Smell Like My Grandmother

"You smell like my grandmother," she said. I blame Monty Python for initially assuming this was a verbal attack, but then I considered the speaker, and quickly analyzed the situation.

Violet is only five, and has never said a rude thing to me. We were walking hand in hand in the shade of the trees that line the park behind our house. Violet had wanted to play outside, but when she realized the swings and the slide were too hot to touch, and she had tried everything else at least a couple times, she asked, "Are you hot?" 

I was melting, and was glad she had been the first one to say something. "Are you ready to go home?" I asked. She nodded, and we decided to try to walk home in the shade for as far as we could.

As we were walking, she pulled my hand toward her nose, and made the announcement about my smelling like her grandmother. At first, I assumed she was telling me I smell like an old woman, but I had to consider that Violet's grandmother probably isn't a lot older than I am, which we all know means she isn't old at all. Then I remembered with fondness my own grandmother, whose hands were soft and fragranced with the cherry-almond scent of Jergens lotion. Violet's comment wasn't rude; it was simply a child's observation.

"You both have fruity soap in the bathroom. Your hands smell sweet," she clarified. Ah, so this wasn't a bad thing, smelling like her grandmother. Her comment makes me want to stock up on yummy smelling soap. With children, we can never be sure what will come out of their mouths, but at her age, Violet's innocence charms me. Miss V is much less Monty Python, and more Pollyanna; I should have known she wasn't being rude. Her innocent honesty is something I wish I possessed.