The morning is early, very early. Earlier than I would like. I have a 3 year old that needs to be at preschool in 20 minutes but refuses to wear pants, and a 3 month old who, I kid you not, just peed into his own eyeballs. My salvation, a cup of coffee. It’s an intimate moment, when you take that first sip in the morning. The day is still early, the kids are still waking up and zombified on the couch, and nobody’s crying yet. High fives all around.
So I very un-graciously stumble into the kitchen toward the Keurig. Whoever invented you, awesome Keurig, I like like you. I watch it slowly dribble out. A nice hot cup of half calf (because I’m nursing), with my favorite coconut milk creamer, in my favorite mug from my hubby. It perfumes the air and I’m on it like butter on toast.
Only that’s not what it is at all…After the hardcore negotiations with my three-nager and the endless amounts of wipes and clothing changes, I’m left with something all too familiar. A cold cup of coffee. The kind that you choke down for a quick jolt as you run out the door. It does the trick, does it not? Meh. Then I think to myself, geez crap. What a blessing it is that I can have a cup of coffee at all. And how lucky am I to have these two nutballs to make it cold for me every morning. I’m grateful for the rituals of motherhood. The ebb and flow, I am grateful. One day I’ll have all the hot coffee, my kiddos will be grown, and I’ll be wishing for this familiar cold cup. In the meantime, I’ll take the cold coffee as long as it’s accompanied by watching my kids grow a bit older and a bit more wonderful.