Tea Parties And Time.

"Mom," she said. "You know what's even better than doing your work?" Nora looked at me expectantly- and a tad impishly.

"...Having a little tea party with the breakable tea set."

She nodded like she had just unveiled THE plan. And, in a way, she had.

You bring the tea set, I'll bring the braids.

For weeks now she's been asking to use "the breakable tea set," the one she was gifted for her third birthday- and the one that, quite honestly, isn't all that breakable. Sure, it's ceramic and way nicer than the plastic cups n' saucers (the ones that, shortly after receipt of the new ones, were foisted off on Suzy as a benevolent Now I Shall Share With You gesture), but it's not like they're the Queen's china.

I guess I just never felt that the time was "right" to play with them: the Zunami was in a crazy flingin' mood, there were too many toys already scattered around the room, and I had a ton of stuff to catch up. (I started to feel badly for Nora as soon as I realized that those three factors would always, always be in play.) But Nora would keep asking- almost every day- "Maybe later when Zu's asleep? Maybe then we'll have a tea party with the breakable tea set?"

"Sure," I'd tell her. And then remove Susannah's leg from an item of furniture.

But this afternoon- long after her little sister fought the good naptime fight (and lost)- and long after Nora's Quiet Time books had been devoured...and long after she decided that a Big Girl Nap was not in the cards for her today...she approached me with that grin.

And I promptly shoved my laptop aside, turned my phone to silent, and prepared to be indulged at the most lavish tea party this side of the Chicago River.

Maybe it was the fact that we had just that morning come from her preschool orientation and I already found myself missing her, or maybe it was that excited smile, the one that made me feel like a jerk for not just letting her use the damn tea set any ol' frickin' time she wanted because IT'S A TEA SET...

But it was the best tea party I'd ever attended.

And when I asked her what was in it ("honey and strawberries, but the kind that Uncle Neil can eat") and how it was prepared ("with water from the bathroom sink"), she seemed grownup and proud and I wanted to stay right there forever.

She was so careful with her pours. And such a hostess with demure inquiries of "Sugar? Creamer" and offers to stir my cup. And the ultimate lady with her pinky up (even though it was the pinky not holding the cup- there's time). And an excellent hydrator with a whopping six refilled pots of "tea."

I went upstairs to put a small cookie on her miniature plate- and her expression would've made you think we were suddenly dining at The Drake.

It made me feel like an excellent Mom. And it made me feel like a terrible Mom.

But it also made me feel like a wise Mom, for I've come to realize something incredibly important: while there will always be crazy-pivotal things to check off our lists, time is so stupidly fleeting and I won't look back fondly on that deadline I got out the door regarding children's bedding options. Someday Nora's gonna be as busy as I always purport to be. So while she's here and young and thinks I hung the moon and stars and sky...I should always say yes to a tea party with my kid.

But I should plan to add my own sugar. She stirs in way too much.