Tea Drinkers.

Must start somewhere. Must get into the habit again of daily writing for and about life and living, documenting all those spaces between knowing something and trying to figure it out. I have not kept a practice in honor of Mabel as I was so good to do for Turner. Each time we read from his Listen To Him Grow . . . book and re-remember the conversations and adventure, I know that someday my excuses for putting work writing over family writing will leave me longing for those stories.

So, today.

Thursdays, Mabel and I take brother to school and I try to make it to yoga after I drop Mabel at school come 9 am. Not this morning. Not last Thursday either. Work keeps squeezing out most everything, but only with my permission. I must remind myself, only with my permission. This morning, the story will be called Tea.

I drink tea as much as my mother. I love the warmth, the ritual of dip, dip, dipping the bag and then the adding of honey and the clink of the spoon in one of my two teacups. Without the cup, without my cup that the boys bought for me at Cotton Mill Studios, the tea proves less warming and healing inside. Mabel, seeing this ritual nearly every morning of her life, has decided to mimic me. She asks for tea. She wants there to be water. She dips the bag over and over. Then she sips. Then she smiles. She is so very proud of herself for knowing what it is she should do and for doing it in tandem.

Her first practice of this ritual happened sometime before Christmas as we hosted office hours together, 8 – 10:30 am. It’s a long stretch, but only the last 90 minutes or so actually involves students. Rarely, there’s an occasional soul showing up before 8:30 am. On that Wednesday, the first tea, I was thankful for the very old and nasty carpet in my office. Drops here and there, making our socks wet with brown and splashing on my books and shelves, staining the plant leaves. That morning, of course, I though I did a decent job cleaning up, with the help of a not quite two year old. The next day, however, the white bookcases and walls told a story that the dark blue carpet made invisible. As I wiped surfaces over the next three days, I though to myself, never give Mabel tea at home. This must be a Mommy’s office type of treat.

Fast forward to today. I admit I’m a little hung over from the no-nap Wednesday and the 4 am wake up call from a furious Mabel who was apparently having a nightmare about peeing her pants. At 4 am, I’m coaxing her on the toilet and telling her she should just sleep. The diaper will catch it all while we slumber. More than a few minutes later, I cave and bring the (sweet, yes) bundle to our bed. Snuggling with her last night was pretty fantastic, but I don’t want to do it every night. I remember how many times we’ve already gotten into and out again of these messy habits.

So, tea. This morning, dunk, dip, and damn: I miss my cup the third time in. Tea puddles on the countertop Andy cleaned sometime before 6:30 am. One kid is at school already, his lunch packed with all the colors and some protein. His forms not signed, though, and in need of a drop off. I wipe up the piddle of green tea from the blue countertop.

“Mabel finished?” I ask.

She looks at me and says “Up.” Her hands coated in yogurt and melted cheese from scrambled eggs. I release Mabel from her Keekaroo and snag my tea cup. Not my real tea cup, which is who knows where. I rarely lose it, but I’m on day two of thinking it is in the car Andy drives, though I haven’t yet looked under the clean dishes piled on the countertop by the sink. The maroon travel mug leads the two of us into the bathroom and I start the shower water. I put M’s cute little bum on the toilet to tinkle, which she does successfully, and we rush through getting clean.

As I’m putting on mascara--the only cosmetic step in the challenging process of entertaining a two year old while trying to lotion and dress my body--Mabel discovers her tea cup from yesterday. This chamomile tea bag has sat in a Star Wars plastic cup that has no doubt leached BPA into the two inches of water these past 18 hours. Instead of taking the cup away from her, I watch her place the cup on the closed toilet seat. She holds the bag by the little tag and begins dunking the tea in and out. I face my reflection and swipe darkness onto my lashes. Blink, blink. “Mabel, keep the tea bag in the cup.” She looks at me and takes the suspended teabag, dripping with water, and waves it at me. Drops of murkey tea water splash across my shirt, face, the mirror. She shakes four or five times, shoulder to knee, before I grab it and strip her of the cup. I did not speak once except to make an elongated ohhh sound.

“Mabel! No. Mess.” The tea bag, just as I get it into my grasp, bursts fine, wet fractions of leaves in a million directions. I go through my day, in the stained tea shirt with one set of eye lashes wearing mascara, perhaps just to punish myself further for forgetting: Tea is a treat for Mommy’s office only.