Smencils were the gateway drug. Smencils were (and still are) scented No. 2 graphite pencils packaged in recyclable plastic freshness tubes. Root beer, bubble gum, tutti-frutti, grape — every kid’s favorite was covered. An affordable habit, even as a school fundraiser, they were only a dollar a piece. The pencils were sniffed and admired as much as they were used. In the process, my kids began a love affair with strong aromas.

At first, Quin’s infatuation was the most pronounced. As a middle school boy with stinky sneakers and questionable hygiene, it was only a matter of time before he discovered girls. And, in turn, he discovered that he needed to alter his malodorous ways. Enter Axe body spray with a scent cloud so robust that it would visibly enter a room before its wearer. Fortunately, this phase was short-lived, as Quin became a much more subtle Old Spice Man.

Similarly, the girls — despite being eight years apart — followed their own predictable fragrance paths. Their adventures began with heavily perfumed lotions, escalated to candles, plug-in air fresheners and aromatherapy mists. It was all too common for opening a bedroom door to result in a full-on olfactory assault.

Addicted to synthetic smells, all of them. Thank you, Smencils.

Last spring, we had a rare visit from everyone. At the moment, we enjoyed having the kids home. The aftermath — dirty dishes, towels and bed linens — was certainly a lot of work. After carrying a load of laundry downstairs, followed by a basket of clean laundry carried upstairs, I paused. I inhaled the unmistakable odor of a synthetic scent. What aroma it was supposed to imitate, I didn’t know. But it was strong, sweet and it definitely wasn’t natural. There was only one logical conclusion. Even as adults, my kids hadn’t outgrown their fragrance obsession.

I checked the immediate bathroom. No air freshener. Any lingering odor was unarguably natural and not sweet.

I raced up another flight of stairs, convinced that one of the girls had left a diffuser plugged in, or worse yet, a candle burning.

First room check. Nothing, but the smell was still there. If anything, the scent was stronger here now, but there was no obvious source.

Second room? The same: strong smell, but no source.

Third room? A bit dusty and barren, but my nose was now starting to itch. The smell seemed even more pronounced.

Sweating and a bit annoyed, I sat on the top stair trying to puzzle out this mystery. I sniffed. I sniffed again. The source suddenly became clear — my armpits. The clearance deodorant I purchased had said “body heat activated,” and for once, there was truth in advertising. As much as my maternal instincts were to blame the kids, this mystery fragrance was literally on me.

Which is why I chuckled when a major health and beauty company introduced Limited Edition Holiday antiperspirants. Not pumpkin spice, not apple pie — they are skipping right over fall and heading for Christmas. Sugar plums and cookies — not bad. Maybe a bit sweet. Champagne? This seems like it could have some unintended consequences. And finally, the epitome of the season: balsam. To be honest, that is the variety I would choose.

But, as tempted as I am to try out a holiday deodorant, my experience has made me wary. On Christmas Eve, when the house is filled with extended family and the room temperature begins to rise, what will happen? How strong will the aroma be? While Rudolph’s anomaly may have helped Santa out, I don’t see the same happy ending. Perhaps if I top off the artificial pine with some lights and a star, I can inspire a new verse for that classic tune: “Lynda, with your pits so ripe …

Won’t you be our tree tonight?”

Somehow, I don’t think that the song or the scent will catch on.