You know, I don’t ask for much. I’m a provider by nature and get a whole lot of satisfaction in taking care of my family. Like most wives and/or moms I try to keep good snackies on hand for the kids, clean underwear and socks in the hubbie’s dresser drawer and a good combo of veggies and fruits at mealtimes (black cherry ice cream and baby carrots count, right?) Now, in full disclosure, I should also add that I wholeheartedly enjoy being the recipient of such caretaking at times. And I’ve never been one to turn down a good gift. But it does my heart good to provide just about anything someone needs.
And what I need every single morning is, coffee.
Each night I set up the coffee pot with water and grounds and go to bed dreaming of the steaming, milky, sweetened cup o’ joe that will be greeting me in the morning. It’s a ritual that has become a part of me, like brushing my teeth or starting a new diet every morning.
But occasionally, on a late night, I will ask my night owl of a husband to set up the coffee pot for me. Now, I typically only hand this responsibility over to him if I am so tired I can barely manage to drag myself off to bed. And even then I hesitate.
You might be wondering why I am so passionate about this subject?
Because there is absolutely nothing worse (barring war, death and disease) than waking up in the morning to a cold coffee pot housing yesterday’s leftovers. Otherwise known as the “husband totally forgot to set up the coffee pot” pot. Wiping sleep from my eyes only to look into a cold coffee pot with a half inch of overly black 24-hour old caffeinated sludge is akin to only eating popcorn and hot tamales all week long and gaining two pounds. Horrifying, isn’t it?
Drinking your morning cup of coffee, for those so inclined, is as much a part of the wakeup process as showering or putting on new underpants and to be denied such an instrumental part of my morning is, well, tragic.
Now, back to my husband and his one and only extremely rare responsibility towards providing for my general morning well-being.
He always forgets.
And yet I continue to ask him to help me out on those nights where I can barely manage to say my prayers (which usually include asking God to make Jer set up the coffee pot) and I go to sleep, dreaming of my most likely non-existent morning coffee. I wake up and head toward the kitchen, hope lifting me through each step, only to discover he has forgotten again.
And then I make coffee.
And then he comes waltzing in, stopping to give me a sweet kiss on the cheek, notices the coffee machine and begins to genuinely and profusely apologize. And I forgive him. And then we do it all over again.
Love is a frickin’ battlefield.