I'm not proud that my 13-month-old has already learned, when she first wakes up, to wait--very quietly--for me to have my coffee before she starts angling for a bottle. Or that there have been times, watching the coffee drip through the filter, that I've caught myself whispering plaintively, "Okay, almost there . . . . Come to Mama." This isn't just about "jump-starting" my day. Sure, coffee wakes me up, but so does hearing my 5-year-old shouting, "Skittles fit in my nose!" It's what coffee does to my mood, the way it alters--I mean really changes--what I believe about my life, my loved ones, myself. That vague, haunting feeling that I've done something terribly wrong with my life begins to dissolve with each sip. And in its place emerges my love for my kids; for the idea of a jam-packed day stretching out in front of me; hell, even for myself. And that's just the first cup.
Yes, Ms. Porterfield. I hear ya'. And I lift my over-sized, steaming mug to you.
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