This afternoon I am drinking from my Sunday cup.  It’s one I haven’t used since before I lived in this house, which means I probably haven’t used it since becoming a mother.  I drank from this cup every Sunday afternoon BC (before children).  Drinking from my Sunday cup was a privilege I only allowed myself on a Sunday afternoon when my entire house was clean and sparkling, something of which I regrettably cannot currently boast.  The delicate, ornate, blue and white teacup and saucer were a gift to me from the tea room the day of my bridal shower.  Somehow that teacup spoke to me of a life which I had yet to live.  It seemed to represent a person, a season, an experience that I had yet to embark upon.  Now looking back, I see that my teacup was indeed symbolic–symbolic of my journey into adulthood where fantasy and reality intermingle too delicately to tell them apart.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve been afraid to use my teacup here.  It’s been nearly seven years since I’ve filled it with coffee–long enough to forget my preferred proportions of cream and sugar in such a small vessel.  I have kept it in a special place in my cupboard, right next to the Waterford stems I have recently begun to use as every day glasses, yes, even right here in my 80’s kitchen.  I have seen the cup often, but have never ventured to pick it up at tea time.  It doesn’t seem quite adequate for handling the weight my motherhood coffee must bear.

Back when I used to drink from my Sunday cup, it was only to relish in the quiet self-satisfaction of a job well-done and a house well-cleaned.  It was a way of rewarding myself for working hard all week at the hospital and working hard on the weekend to keep house.  Even then it was something new and different and meaningful to know that I had successfully entered adulthood, and that my childish enjoyment of noise and excitement had finally given way to a strong and grateful preference of peace, solitude, and a few moments to myself.

Now, several years later, my afternoon coffee doesn’t often find itself in the midst of reflection on a blissful afternoon.  Nor does it simply exist for a moment of mere pleasure.  My motherhood afternoon coffee carries the responsibility of refueling me for the harder part of the day–the part where homework and dinner and bathtime prevail.  In some ways, my afternoon coffee really represents me–the me that I am now.  And my Sunday cup represents the me that I was then.  The Now Me is less me and more Mommy.  And that’s a good thing.