There are no sippy cups here.

This weekend I finally cleaned my kitchen cupboard that’s been acting as a catchall.  I pulled everything out, wiped down the shelves, and began sorting through all the junk.

Who knew that cupboards could hold so much?

I found several lids that were designed to accompany thermos cups that keep your beverages warm.  However, all the thermos cups were declared missing in action, so the partnerless lids went into the trash.  I found a coffee mug with my name on it, that was given to me by a cute boy in high school.  This cup was reverently placed back into the cupboard, to remind me of skinnier and flirtier days gone by.

There were lonely tupperware lids from our early married days when we only made dinner for two.  Also found were random plastic cups flashing their NFL gang signs that the men in our family keep purchasing on their testosterone filled boys-night outings.  On the very top shelf were items my family hadn’t used in years, but I had kept because we got them at our wedding.  Taking a deep breath, I practiced Spock’s art of Kolinahr, which severed all my emotions from these dishes and I put them in the Salvation Army pile.

Finally, in the back corner wedged between a soup bowl with a crack in it and a cereal bowl with strawberries on it I found the last sippy cup.

It had been there for almost two years.  First carefully stashed in case of emergencies but as time went by and no drinking calamities occurred, the cup was forgotten.  It had become a dusty relic of an era  long ago when there were toddlers and babies in my house.

For a moment, I considered keeping the sippy cup as a trophy.  A sort of visual reminder that (in the language of Barry Manilow) announced to the masses I had made it through the rain.

However, I don’t really need a trophy to do that.  The survival of my children’s early years are etched into the lines on my face, the tired slump of my shoulders, and the white hairs on my head:  visual proof for all the world to see.

So I threw that faded pink sippy cup in the trash and I moved on.

There are no sippy cups here.  This is both a boast and a lament.

(Just Write.)

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10 Responses to There are no sippy cups here.

  1. Mindy says:

    I boast right along with you at the freedom from the toddler era, and lament the white hairs as much as you do. And before your memory fades completely, I think you should message me in private the name of the cute boy who gave you that coffee mug! Just so I can let Mr. Bunker know there’s a darn good reason to move that mug to the nursing home with you. 😉

  2. You just made a Barry Manilow reference? In the words of David Cassidy, “I think I love you.”

    • Oh my gosh- I just made the kids watch a youtube video of “I Think I Love You” last week as I was trying to explain the genius that was The Partridge Family. We must be musical twins separated at birth.

  3. Marie says:

    My 12-year-old son salutes you due to a great use of a Star Trek reference. But then again, he is currently under our kitchen table (during dinner) trying to prove he can bench press the table. He just stated that he’d actually be able to do it if there wasn’t food on it. Yeah, because that food is so heavy. 🙂

    • Perhaps if you were eating cinderblocks for supper…. (and I’m so glad someone liked my Star Trek reference. I’m feeling particularly proud of that one.)
      I’m missing you a lot lately. Any chance you want to move your whole family out to Indiana? It’ll be fun.

  4. I love everything about this post. Beautiful and well done.

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