A Cup of Tea

Each evening, I end my day with a cup of tea. As the tea steeps, and the hot water takes on the color of the leaves, the day develops before me, like a polaroid picture. In the quiet of the sleeping house, the vibrating energy that jars my mind softens to a low hum, and I sit and unwind.

It is in these moments that regret begins to blossom, shame at not being able to capture this calm when my children are awake. The remorse I feel for counting down the minutes until they go to sleep, to get to this place of peace. Questions of why I cannot find this joy in sorting their laundry, or packing their lunches. There had been the moment we realized the dog had stolen a cheeseburger off the stove, trying to bury it in the backyard as we all gazed out the window, laughing at our silly Gracie Girl. But the lightness of these moments always seems fleeting.The food got cold and pre-algebra problems loomed.

 I steal away, up the stairs, just to watch them sleep, their faces changing before my eyes from the now young men into the round cheeked babies, tucked into their cribs I knew so well when I would come to them in the middle of the night.

My fears then were of crib death or croup. Watching them now, I am reminded of the nights when my fears were simpler, though no less consuming. My trepidation now is of pain they might not share with me—hurts I might seem too distant or judgmental to understand. Even with all the time in the world to take care of the tasks that fill my day, I fear I have lost the ability to simply take them in, as they are. As I did when they were held close to my breast, sleeping, milk drunk as babes. My middle son’s furrowed brow, as he stared at his phone, catches by breath, and no amount of coaxing can unlock the message he seems to be turning over in his mind as he puts the phone down and returns to his video game.

I take a sip of tea, and momentarily, the inner warmth soothes me. Glancing around at the forms to be signed, the ipads to be plugged in, along with their phones, and the uniforms to be taken out of bags, and thrown in the laundry before tomorrow, the panic returns. It is an endless war to do it all, and to do nothing, except enjoy these humans in my presence before they move on to their own chapters. Promises are made – to do better tomorrow, to take a breath. To maybe sit with my tea earlier in the evening, letting it soften my edges and dull my need to schedule. I recall, with some temporary relief, the moment we all watched the end of an old cooking show, and the boys remembered our mock Chopped battles we conducted in the kitchen – the gelatinous creations they made proudly, and the way I choked down all three, awarding the least egregious the title of “Chopped Champion.” But these lighthearted moments are rare, and the demands of daily life quickly resurface.

I often wonder what they will remember about me. Will they think back to the tasks I completed, the meals that were prepared to their individual tastes and preferences? The fact that I was only a call away to run home for their project or their brown shoes they needed for the concert? Will they remember the whiteboard we had on the refrigerator where they could request more deodorant or toothpaste, a lego set maybe, from our weekly shopping trip? Will it just be a list of jobs completed?

When they gather, and I am long gone, or sitting in a nursing home, gazing out the window, replaying their childhoods in my mind, I imagine them remembering the many times I burned the bacon, and one would say, “It seems smoky” as we break into giggles, opening the windows on a freezing January day, collectively trying to beat the smoke alarm none of us were tall enough to reach back then. 

If I think hard enough, I can conjure up an image of them restating the rules we had for the one sit down dinner we had a week, where we waited until everyone was seated before eating, and each shared our rose and thorn of the day, even when the youngest couldn’t say thorn and only lamented the torns he faced in his first grade classroom.

I take a sip.

If I can hold onto these moments – that encompassed gifts of service and care, and the quiet joy we held on to for those 20 minute meals, me in my work clothes, the boys in varied states of dress, I can calm my trepidation for a moment. There has to be immense joy that comes from watching the youngest slurp spaghetti, dressed in his spiderman onesie pajamas, complete with his Chicago Bears snowcap, lazily topping his head.

The panic that I have not expressed, haphazardly balanced by the complete and utter love I have – and the fact that they are truly the entirety of my heart and my brain – their schedules, fears, and loves tattooed in my mind, overwriting all I was before them. How does a mother tell this to her three boys?

It is a kiss every time I see them, a hug in the hallways of their school, even though they move away quicker each time. It is the way my face immediately breaks into the smile that changes my entire face when I see them in a crowded space. 

Another sip.

How can I make them understand the magnitude of the space they fill within me?

I take hope in knowing that when they have their own children, they may do the math, and realize the chores, the careful organization of their supplies each morning, the late night trips to the grocery store to get the s’more pop tarts they prefer so the morning runs more smoothly. But, is it enough?

One last sip, and my cup is now emptied. Rinsing it in the sink, gently placing it next to the dishes that accumulated from the latest meal before bed, I wipe down the counter, and leave them for tomorrow. The day will begin, as it has for the past sixteen years. I will awake, and pour a cup of coffee as I watch the morning news. Prepare myself for the day, and then climb the stairs to wake each boy with a gentle pat, and a “Good morning, my love,” as I have since they came earthside. For a moment, we will be back in time, and as their eyes open in recognition, placing them in this moment with me, I will take time to notice the look of remembrance on their face, and hope they retain each morning like this, before we rush into the madness of the packing, activities, paper, and transitioning.

In that moment, I will be seen, and they will know. Just like when they thank me for cutting off the brown parts of the pizza, or acknowledge the extra blue cheese ordered, even though only one of the boys will touch it.

I fall asleep, and dream of drifting off in a rocking chair, their sweet breath tickling my face, and I smile. This life that has developed – slowly, with moments of ambiguity, fear, and immense joy – is beautiful.