The Perfect Time for Tea

…the sound of rumbling water in the kettle, finding its way to a boil.

…puffs of steam escaping into the air, promising warmth and comfort.

…scents of spearmint wafting through the kitchen, transporting me back to days gone by.

…feelings of coziness that making a cup of tea ensures.

…the sweet taste of anticipation—for the tea, for the news that we will discuss over our tea.

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          I was a young teenager when I was treated to my first cup of tea. My little sister and cousins were in my aunt’s living room, watching WWF wrestling. Preferring my aunt’s company to that of Hulk Hogan and “The Macho Man,” I stayed in the kitchen. We were chatting at the kitchen table when my aunt stood and nonchalantly asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?” I tried to play it cool, but I was strangely excited and nervous at the same time. “Yes, please,” was all that I could make out, along with a sharp involuntary exhale.

          What would it taste like? What would it feel like to wrap my hands around one of the huge mugs I had seen my aunt carrying like a prized possession? Would it make me feel any differently? The shrill whistle of the kettle cut through my thoughts, and I watched as my aunt shut off the flames under the stove burners then poured the hot water into twin mugs. She told me we needed to wait a bit, explaining the importance of “steeping,” indicating that she did in fact know that it was my first time. On autopilot, she made my tea to her preferences—2 sugars with a dash of cream.

           I burned my mouth trying to drink the tea too soon too fast a few times, but it was delightful! The taste was perfect, and the liquid warmed me from the inside out. I enjoyed feeling the heat on my hands through the ceramic mug but, most of all, I loved feeling so grown up, nursing my tea at the kitchen table with my aunt while the children did kid stuff in the other room.

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          Now, here I am, hosting a very special teatime of my own. Although I am reminded of that first cup of tea my aunt lovingly made for me, there is a different cup of tea that I am thinking of more today. The specially marked box with the sleeping bear logo, along with the distinct smell of spearmint, take me back to another exceptional time.

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I labor to the sink to fill the kettle then head to the stove, bringing the flames to life. I wait, watching the flames dance, lost in my reverie. It is all happening so fast, so suddenly—I thought I had more time, time to plan and to prepare. I’m certainly ready, but will I have everything ready in time? A month—that’s a substantial difference. The kettle whistle goes off, drawing me back to the task at hand.

Reaching into the cabinet, I bypass the Lipton, the Earl Grey, and the Chai Tea. Instead, I go right for the Sleepytime Herbal Spearmint. Each time I do, I have a little chuckle, as I have not had much “sleepy time” in months. The smell of the spearmint is calming and comforting as the tea seeps. The only thing I add to this tea is a bit of cold water to cool it down.

Sitting with my feet up in a comfortable chair, I hold the oversized mug in one hand and place the other on my oversized belly and, as is my routine, begin talking to my unborn son.

“So, the doctor says they were wrong about when you are coming. I guess we’re both in a rush to see each other. Mama is so ready to meet you in person! I can’t wait to look into your eyes and touch your cheeks and hold your hand then give you kisses all over!"

          "You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey.

          You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my Sunshine away."

I realize that I am rubbing my stomach as I sing when my hand gets kicked from the inside. I continue to sip my spearmint herbal tea, daydreaming about holding my baby in my arms.

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On this day, my “baby” is 30 years old, and he is sitting at my kitchen table. I am so preoccupied with my emotions that I barely notice my small but familiar tasks until I smell the spearmint. My hand automatically drops to my belly, but I won’t find him there anymore. Rather, he’s at the table chatting away. I beam at him as a thousand memories flood my mind. How did we get here so fast? It seems like just yesterday I was cradling his newborn body in my arms. I can remember his first tooth, his first word (“Mama”), and his first steps so vividly. His baby self was so different from his toddler years. Now, look at him—6' 2" and slender, with an infectious smile and my eyes.

In hindsight, his childhood went by in a flash. Although I can not help getting nostalgic at times, I love his adult self. He is kind, loving, sensitive, intelligent, industrious, and outrageously funny. I am proud of him every day! Since he’s been back from down South, I treasure the frequent visits we enjoy, like today—but today has become a special occasion, which calls for a special treat.

I carefully serve the steaming, fragrant tea then settle into a chair across from my son. We sit in comfortable silence for a bit, blowing on the tea and enjoying one another’s company until I cannot stand it any longer. It’s looking as if I will have to be the one to carry on the conversation. I sift through hundreds of things I would like to say and bring my focus to my son's right so that I can look into the bright eyes of his wife before asking excitedly, “So, when are you due?”