For Here, Please

The beauty of Saturday morning is embodied in the "for here" cup.

Around here, we have approximately nine of the original dozen coffee cups we received at our wedding nine years ago and a collection of tumblers we've accumulated over the years.  During the week, those tumblers get all the action.  I fill my "to go" cup first thing and then cart it all over town through the morning--to school, to the rec center, to the store, to gymnastics.  It's an emblem of our full but generally fun mornings of activity, keeping me buzzing as we buzz around town.

On Saturday morning, however, I choose the "for here" option: a huge yellow mug that fits perfectly in two cupped hands.  I hold it carefully in front of me while I fold myself into the couch, and here the warm porcelain sits undisturbed in my palms for a few precious minutes.  The first sips are the best, enjoyed in the company of Josh in the quiet morning before the kids come down and turn the house on with their boisterous energy.  We sit together in our pajamas and talk, enjoying a few stolen moments alone before the day begins.

When the darlings arrive, we both set down our cups to give hugs and snuggles and make breakfast and walk Merlot and read books and build legos and tidy the looming mess.  I return to it between demands, sipping the lukewarm coffee out of principle.  The "to go" tumbler actually makes more sense on Saturday mornings--would be less prone to spill, would stay warmer longer, would be easier to carry from room to room.  But I can't bring myself to give up this relic of unhurried mornings and the freedom to sit and be without the pressures of the clock.

It's pure symbol, but its nod to timelessness is priceless.  It makes me believe, whatever season of life we're in, we can and should steal a few moments to linger over a cup of coffee on a lazy Saturday morning, even if the definition of "lazy" is revised over the years to mean a few minutes of lingering rather than a few hours.

"'For here' or 'to go'?" Josh asks me from the kitchen, the man of my dreams serving up our favorite morning ritual.

"For here," I say.

It's my line in the sand, my insistence that, kids or puppy or not, there is something special about Saturday morning, something slow and simple and worth savoring.  We're not rushing anywhere today.  We're just existing, here.