It’s 2:30pm. Or maybe 3 o’clock.

My mommy brain has drained the last of it’s usefulness, slowing to a crawl. The children, right on cue as if to test my wits at the frayed end, have grown tired of their building projects and bikes and brotherly love. They stream around me like water around a sinking vortex. Hmmm… I think I just flushed myself down a toilet. That’s it. Enough. Time to rally.

It’s tea time.

I love the feel of the soft, pyramidal cloth bag as it goes from box to mug. It fits so lightly between my fingertips and makes the most satisfying “smish” as it hits the sugar in the bottom of the cup.

This is British black tea. It’s not top of the line. Heck, it’s probably not even top of the bottom of the line, but I love it.

I discovered it by accident at a local coffee shop. The barista sold it to me every Friday morning for a year after an animated discussion on the origins of black tea. When he got fired I came to find out, among other things, he’d been serving me the owner’s secret stash that was not actually for sale. Tragic. Heartbreaking. I felt like I’d lost a friend- in the tea that is. So the search was on for a new supplier.

My tea and I have since been reunited.

The dry bag smells like water in the mountains. There is no string or tag attached. It’s almost scandalous. A crime against convenience, I am a willing accomplice. As a decently civilized member of Tea Nation, I will use a spoon to remove the bag and my pinky shall remain free and high in the name of proprietary snobbery.

The sugar and milk go in before the hot water, not after.

As the water pours down, the milk swirls together with the sugar and tea in perfect union. In goes the little metal spoon. Stir and tap. Stir and tap. There’s no real reason for this except ritual, but the sound of the metal hitting the porcelain is old and reassuring: an afternoon wake up call for the ages.

At the right moment, the spoon carries the tea bag to the tiny saucer and they rest there together like a couple of children washed up on a summery beach, exhausted and satisfied. Alone for once, I sit at the weathered dining room table, hands cupped around a quickly warming mug. With the first sip, I close my eyes and exhale. All goes quiet.

It’s delicious.

As the tea works its wizardry on my sluggish cells, I am no longer at the center of a flushing toilet. I am the eye of a hurricane. Still, calm, waiting before the rush comes on. The wind rages around the edges of my sanctuary– a sun lit table surrounded by the wars of a constantly shifting sibling dynasty, but I don’t care. I am reveling in the simple pleasure of an afternoon cuppa.

Let me be for a few more moments while I come alive again.

And just like that the queen is revived. Rebellions are squelched. Order is restored. The scrub brush-shaped Scepter of Glory has once again returned to power.

Ah, afternoon tea. It’s like magic.