rainy day cuppa
You know that longing to sit down in a quiet place with a cup of tea? You walk around in the chaos of the morning, brushing and braiding kids' hair, buttering toast, zipping up lunch boxes, and all the time, there's this image you cherish: you, in front of the fire, hot cup of tea cradled in your hands, the dog asleep at your feet, rain falling softly outside. Silence.
In reality, you have to reheat your tea multiple times and some days you pop open the microwave to thaw something for dinner and there it sits, cold and forlorn, veiled in milky skum.
I carry that image of tea with me all day at different times; in the evenings when I'm waiting for Martin to return from work (inevitably late), the longing turns to a glass of wine, in front of the fire, ditto, ditto (see top).
I've had that same longing to sit down and write here. I feel as if I'm crawling out of a jungle of appointments, car-rides, dinner preparations, homework, laundry, and children. It's humid in there, let me tell you, and noisy and beautiful and full of danger.
I thwack away another vine, pull spiders out of my hair, extract a snake from my sleeve, and walk into a cleared space. The grass is smooth and green; there are tables under a purple jacaranda tree; and, you guessed it, waiters with trays balanced with white tea pots, white cups and saucers, bowls full of dusky sugar. And two gingersnaps on each saucer.
When I was a child in Kenya visiting the gamepark and sleeping in a four-poster bed under a tent, someone would wake us every morning for our early-morning game drive with a cup of tea and two gingersnaps. Early mornings were the best time to see lions.
These days I'm awakened twice, once by Martin's clean, sweet-smelling face as he kisses me goodbye; the next by Merry, who breezily flips on the bathroom light and says, "Mommy. Mommy. Time to get up." I swim back into sleep for a few minutes but then I'm up, pulling on my slippers, blundering downstairs to put the kettle back on. It's all 'go' from there, breakfasts and lunches and carrying the dog to the car if it's wet outside (because he likes to do the school run with us), first dropping Elspeth at her bus stop and then driving Bea further on down the road to her stop,where we wind around a loop with other parents and children and I check my rear-view mirror half-a-dozen times to make sure that she's going in through the double front doors.
This morning when she eased out of the car, I heard her say, "Actually, I think I want. . ." And then she made a little huffy sound of determination and stepped out. I watched her wander to the school's front doors and I realized she was wearing one brown boot, zipped up her right calf, and one little sneaker on her left. Her scrawny little ankle and Hello Kitty sock rose above the sneaker before her leggings started.
As I pulled away toward home, I remembered that she'd talked about that choice on her way out the door, how she thought it would be amusing to wear one sneaker and one boot on either foot. I'd encouraged her to take the other boot with her into the car, which she did, but in the end, she held firm to this little conviction, that mismatched shoes were the way to go on Thursday morning. And who am I to question harmless choices like this one? I wonder how things will go for her today. . . .
Well, my fire all but just died, so I'd better go tend it. So many little things in life need tending, and thank goodness in a way, since it keeps us sane when it's not boring us to tears. My cords are drying on the back of a chair; it was blustery and rainy with fine webs of drops that blew across Charley and me, soaking us before we'd walked two blocks. But every drop in every cedar tree, every frothing drain, every rhododendron bloom that's come too early but doesn't care--it all delighted us. And it was good to get home, too, and find it dry and warm, and Charley found his bed waiting for him, and I found my chair and my laptop, and yes, my cup of tea, too.
In reality, you have to reheat your tea multiple times and some days you pop open the microwave to thaw something for dinner and there it sits, cold and forlorn, veiled in milky skum.
I carry that image of tea with me all day at different times; in the evenings when I'm waiting for Martin to return from work (inevitably late), the longing turns to a glass of wine, in front of the fire, ditto, ditto (see top).
I've had that same longing to sit down and write here. I feel as if I'm crawling out of a jungle of appointments, car-rides, dinner preparations, homework, laundry, and children. It's humid in there, let me tell you, and noisy and beautiful and full of danger.
I thwack away another vine, pull spiders out of my hair, extract a snake from my sleeve, and walk into a cleared space. The grass is smooth and green; there are tables under a purple jacaranda tree; and, you guessed it, waiters with trays balanced with white tea pots, white cups and saucers, bowls full of dusky sugar. And two gingersnaps on each saucer.
When I was a child in Kenya visiting the gamepark and sleeping in a four-poster bed under a tent, someone would wake us every morning for our early-morning game drive with a cup of tea and two gingersnaps. Early mornings were the best time to see lions.
These days I'm awakened twice, once by Martin's clean, sweet-smelling face as he kisses me goodbye; the next by Merry, who breezily flips on the bathroom light and says, "Mommy. Mommy. Time to get up." I swim back into sleep for a few minutes but then I'm up, pulling on my slippers, blundering downstairs to put the kettle back on. It's all 'go' from there, breakfasts and lunches and carrying the dog to the car if it's wet outside (because he likes to do the school run with us), first dropping Elspeth at her bus stop and then driving Bea further on down the road to her stop,where we wind around a loop with other parents and children and I check my rear-view mirror half-a-dozen times to make sure that she's going in through the double front doors.
This morning when she eased out of the car, I heard her say, "Actually, I think I want. . ." And then she made a little huffy sound of determination and stepped out. I watched her wander to the school's front doors and I realized she was wearing one brown boot, zipped up her right calf, and one little sneaker on her left. Her scrawny little ankle and Hello Kitty sock rose above the sneaker before her leggings started.
As I pulled away toward home, I remembered that she'd talked about that choice on her way out the door, how she thought it would be amusing to wear one sneaker and one boot on either foot. I'd encouraged her to take the other boot with her into the car, which she did, but in the end, she held firm to this little conviction, that mismatched shoes were the way to go on Thursday morning. And who am I to question harmless choices like this one? I wonder how things will go for her today. . . .
Well, my fire all but just died, so I'd better go tend it. So many little things in life need tending, and thank goodness in a way, since it keeps us sane when it's not boring us to tears. My cords are drying on the back of a chair; it was blustery and rainy with fine webs of drops that blew across Charley and me, soaking us before we'd walked two blocks. But every drop in every cedar tree, every frothing drain, every rhododendron bloom that's come too early but doesn't care--it all delighted us. And it was good to get home, too, and find it dry and warm, and Charley found his bed waiting for him, and I found my chair and my laptop, and yes, my cup of tea, too.
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