Who Broke the Daddy Cup?

There are many cups of accomplishment out there in the world: the Ryder Cup, the Whitbread Cup, the Wimbledon Cup, and the Daddy Cup. The last easily blows the others out of the water for the sheer amount of manufacturing time required to achieve its unique appearance, and the determination taken to see it through. Other Cups are simply melded, engraved, or tapped into shape by jewelers and silversmiths proud of their craft, but the Daddy Cup is born of blood, sweat and tears: those of a determined mother and the creative outpourings of their progeny. The Daddy recipient will be overjoyed and vow to drink his coffee out of it daily. It will be revered, carefully handled, and given first class status as “top-rack only” in the dishwasher.

If you’ve ever asked anyone to come over, whether that’s been to stay for a few days, housesit, pet sit, babysit, or service an appliance, you know the laws of probability race to your house and divide exponentially. At the top of the probability tree, is the increased chance of accidents, like putting bleach in the washing machine fabric softener compartment; throwing your gentle-wash, coldwater, line-dry laundry into the dryer on super hot speed dry; running the garbage disposal with two forks, a penny and some identifiable plastic wreckage inside; or knocking over a decorative porcelain candlestick with the window shade. We returned from our recent getaway to all this and more, but one mystery remains: Who broke the Daddy Cup?

The Daddy Cup required a car journey to a Paint-Your-Own-Pottery shop wherein the accompanying small children were required to select the appropriate chalice to paint, while not touching or bumping into any of the china on display or on the drying rack after artistic renderings by others. This is stressful for the accompanying parent, mostly since she is required to absorb a decent amount of information about the price per child, per minute, per additional paint colour, per extra (like stickers, string, and specialty raised or puffy paint), all while herding the inquisitive smalls away from the $45 mug and plate combo to the plain $12.99 mug special. The children must choose their first five colours from a board of about 75. Anyone who has ever presented a child under five years old with more than two options knows this level of choice can only result in total indecision and a mental breakdown. Once wrapped in painting smocks and seated, they are presented with an open bowl of water and sponges to wet the mug. Again, encouraging children to “have at it” with a large bowl of water, can really only end up one way. Our table was so sloshed we had to be reseated.

Despite obvious parallels between preschoolers and tiny baby bulls in a china shop, once seated, they will not be hurried when it comes to paint. Art cannot be rushed. As the minutes ticked by and the bill racked up, I found myself jumping in with, “Let me help you with that, it might be quicker…”- much to their fury and the shop assistants’ smirks. Two hours later, two children, three fights over paint colours, two art tables, the addition of one ready-to-paint unicorn, and suddenly the $12 special was closing in on $56 before tax. I offered to write BEST DADDY on the front (special puffy paint, $4 extra) and we called it a wrap. Arguably, it had been a meaningful special mother-child activity, surely worth every penny, although one of our handprint collages slapped together at the kitchen table might have been just as effective, and free. But surely a more meaningful gift could not be found for the time invested, the handmade artistry, the arguments, compromises and pouts shared over the craft? In short, the Daddy Cup is utterly irreplaceable.

A couple of days after our return, my heart sank when I saw a long crack inside the Daddy Cup. On closer inspection, the crack was only the tip of the iceberg. The entire mug had been painstakingly glued back together after a clearly catastrophic accident that left the mug halved and the handle shattered into several pieces. Everything had been carefully retrieved and reassembled, no doubt with a good deal of super glue, and positioned back in the cupboard among its brethren of inferiors. I was gobsmacked, not by the accident itself since I am no stranger to breakages, but by the level of intrigue and complicity. Someone – bearing in mind there were only a handful of trusted souls in and out of our house – was so appalled at what had been broken that they preferred an artistic invisibility cloak rather than leave it out with a note. I’m pretty sure the Real Madrid player who dropped his team’s trophy over the edge of the victory bus would have done the same thing if he could, but then he was object of derision in a nation of ardent fans. Nonetheless, the accidents involving the candlestick and the melted egg timer have been claimed, but no-one has brought the restructured mug to our attention (nor do we have the heart to pry), leaving us to forever wonder, “Who dunnit?”