My childhood memories that I show you are usually horrific ones of an abused and scared little girl. I remembered this contradictory morning and wanted to share it with you. Not every hour and every minute was bad and perhaps that type of childhood is even more challenging – never knowing where on the spectrum of love and hate a moment is going to land.
It’s Saturday morning, not too early because even as a little kid, I was never a super-early riser. Perhaps it’s 8 or 9 o’clock. I’m watching Saturday morning cartoons from my spot on the floor at the end of the coffee table. In front of me is a half-finished Libby juice glass of “coffee” made especially for me by dad – three heaping tablespoons of sugar, probably filling 1/3 of the glass, 1/3 whole milk and the final third of coffee. Tasting more like dessert than bitter coffee, it’s delicious. Dad is sitting behind me at the dining table, reading the paper with his mug of black coffee in his hand. The rest of the family is still asleep. All is well.