I have my dear neighbor to thank for this mug:
When RB was a couple weeks old my neighbor arrived bearing dinners. She made TWO dinners: one for Captain and me and one especially for BB, a Dora the Explorer plate piled with dino chicken nuggets and mac n cheese.
Ours was delicious and BB is still talking about hers. As in,
“I want my dinner on the Dora plate P gave me. You remember the dinner she made me?”
In addition there was the mug. I thanked her at the time, but was way more focused on the food.
Four months later, this mug is a highlight of my morning.
For years I’ve gone to bed looking forward to my morning coffee. This has only amplified now that it’s my sliver of alone time.
I shuffle into the kitchen in my slippers. You know the ones. The sun is rising. I pour steaming black coffee into my I-am-a-Writer mug. Life is good.
Not only am I alone, drinking coffee and eating a chocolate I don’t have to answer to BB about, I am being reminded by my mug that I am a writer. I’m not just a big human keeping two little humans alive. Some days reduce me to that, but then I get to wake up, get my writer mug out and try again.
I love all things coffee. I love drinking it; I love reading books where other people drink it and while blogging this I’ve learned that I love writing about drinking it.
In addition to boosting my self-esteem, I’m pretending this mug is fair warning to BB and RB.
I do not blog about them with impunity. I am aware that someday they may take real issue with being blog fodder.
I’m also hypocritical. I’m reluctant to post their photos on social media. Let them make their own internet trail when they’re ready or whatever age it’s acceptable for them to have a phone, 18?
So someday when BB and RB wave my blog at me and say,
“How dare you?”
I’ll point to my mug,
“You read my daily disclaimer and you continued to live here.”