Coffee post time?

So I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been preaching more lately or what, but I don’t seem to be having the deep thoughts lately.  But I still want to write some bloggy stuff.  Sooo . . .

Haven’t had a coffee post in a while.  What the heck?  How’s about another?

So I think coffee is rotting a hole in my stomach.  Or totally demolishing that little muscle–whatever she may be–at the top of my stomach.  You know, the one that’s supposed to stay closed to keep the food and acid and general yuck down in my stomach where it belongs?  Something is going horribly awry with my stomach.  And I’m suddenly suspecting the coffee.

No one warned me.  My dear husband who encouraged me to drink coffee, strongly encouraged, cajoled, dare I say? pushed me to drink coffee over the course of 17 years never told me it would rot my stomach out.  Has it been his secret plot all along to get me to join him in his stomach woes?

To this point I’ve had stomach of steel.  I’m of good, fine Lithuanian stock.  Our stomachs can handle diets of nothing but potatoes, sour cream and bacon.  I can eat what I want, how I want, when I want with nary a second thought.  But now.  Suddenly. . . . yick.

I blame the coffee.

I share my fears, my woes, my pain, my concern with my dearly beloved.  And what does he say?  “You just have to push through this uncomfortable time, till those nerve endings in your lower esophagus become deadened by the acid and you no longer feel anything there and then once again you can eat and drink anything you want.”

OK then.  As long as the man’s got a system.  I’m going to have to think about this . . .

Upon Request from the Man I Love . . .

I came downstairs this morning to a freshly brewed pot of hot coffee.

“Hmmm.  Thank you!”

“Yeah.  I want to see a blog about this.”

So here it is.  I hope you’re laughing, because we sure were.  The man just cracks me up.

And I didn’t even need to use any womanly wiles.  Unless you count broadcasting to the world his new get-out-of-making-coffee scheme.

Ok. So apparently I’m addicted now.

Nice.

It’s been a while since I had a coffee post, and, after 25 years (or maybe it was 1.5 months) of dwelling on death, I figured maybe it was time for a coffee post. So here it is.

It was right around this time last year that I began drinking this stuff.  And I have come to be utterly enamored with it.  Even as late as last week, I burst out in gratitude to my husband:  “Thank you, thank you, thank you for the Coffee!  For persisting in encouraging me!  For never giving up on me!  Thank you thankyouthankyou!!  I was wrong.  I was so very wrong!”  No kidding.  And in a deadpan that is as dead as only he can make it:  “Yes.  You were wrong.  And you’re welcome.”

So, on the one hand, my passion for the stuff has only increased with time.  On the other hand, with the newness wearing off, I’m finding the whole act of making the coffee a bit tedious.  Actually, it’s not the making that’s so bad, it’s mostly the cleaning of the percolator that’s getting annoying.  So while the coffee maker was once entirely Ry’s domain–I never touched the thing–we now, in all fairness, should share responsibility for the pretty pot.  And I was excited to step up.  For a while.  Now I understand the drudgery of which Ry would speak.

So now, being the perpetual adolescents we are, we’ve joined in a new game together.  Avoidance.  Ry is particularly adept at the game, but now I’m on to him.

There’s always about a cup of coffee left in the pot at the end of the day, and of course we don’t clean the pot out at night, so now Ry has taken to simply starting his day with the leftovers.  That gets him going, he’s set.  But then I come down to the kitchen.  Ry is drinking his first cup of coffee without making any–without cleaning the pot and brewing some new–and I’m left with an empty mug.  So, what do I do?  I make myself some coffee.  And then, of course, Ry fills up his sippy cup with the brand new, fresh stuff.  Nice.

So.  Today I said, enough of this.  I’m just not going to make any coffee for myself.  I’m too tired to clean the pot and I’ve made it for days and days in a row, and Heck!  I never even used to drink the stuff.  I don’t need any today.  I’ll be fine.

Well.  I’m not.  I’m not at all fine.  All morning I had this dull little feeling in front of my eyes, in front of my foggy brain.  Everything a little dull. Hunh.  After a year of coffee drinking, it seems I am now addicted. Didn’t see that coming.

So, it’s now two in the afternoon and I did clean up the coffee pot and make new coffee and I’m sitting here pepping myself up to go outside and play.

Part of me doesn’t like the whole idea of being addicted to something.

But that’s just a teeny tiny part of me.  The rest of me sits here saying, “Mmmmmm . . . Cahfeeeeeee . . . ” and tries to devise a scheme to rope Ry into making coffee more often.  I might have to use my womanly wiles.

Welcome Back . . . Coffee

Ok, so I’m back on the blogging train. I figured what better way to hit the rails than with a story about coffee.

If you’re following my progress, you’ll know that after 17 years of husband’s urgings I finally started drinking coffee. I started with a more chocolate than coffee concoction and slowly weaned myself off the chocolate, replacing it with sugar–and really, the high cocao percentage chocolate was probably a healthier choice anyway–with the hopes of cutting the sugar down to out of the coffee altogether. Some day. Sooome day, I might make it to bona fide coffee as defined by my curmudgeonly friend: “Coffee is dark Colombian roast. Or Hawaiian Kona. Strong. Dark. No sugar. NONE. No cream, milk, half & half. Coffee is… COFFEE.” That is my goal. Not just to be a coffee purist, but to stop drinking my calories every morning, to have an indulgent yet fairly benign treat.

Recently I had a breakthrough. I had my first cup of coffee without sugar. It had half & half, but no sugar. I was so proud. Progress, right?

Well. Yes and no. Sure, the coffee wasn’t sweetened. But the coffee was accompanied by a Krispy Kreme glazed donut. Umm . . . nope. No progress here. But boyyy, was it yummy.

What’s the deal with coffee?

You might be asking yourself the same question right now, but for different reasons. As in, “Why, oh why, Lee, do you keep talking about coffee?!”

But really. What’s with it? I held out for so very long. I confess, I probably held out for most of those years simply out of spite as my husband tried so hard to get me to drink the stuff. I held out for so very long. I never got what people’s thing for coffee was. Really? You need it? I call my husband’s ubiquitous coffee-filled travel mug his sippy cup, mocking him. And then there’s the Stay-at-Home (SAHM) crowd. I read on the message boards about their therapeutic drive-thru hits at Monster Coffee Chain. Really? Eighty dollars a cup for a drink?! I just don’t get it.

I mean, I get the therapeutic drive-thrus. I’m convinced it was a mom who dreamed up the Drive-Thru window. Sleeping baby in back–sleeping in the car because she’s teething and she won’t sleep any other way–and mom’s hungry or tired or bored or simply going batty and Gee I could really go for some hot steamy fat right about now, but I can’t wake the baby–or, alternatively, I’d rather pluck my eyeballs out with a toothpick than drag my three crazy kids into that place with the germ-infested play zone–whatever is a mom to do? I know! I’ve got an idea! What if we opened a little porthole to greasy joy that doesn’t require moving my children? Yes. That will work!!

Anyway, back to the coffee. If it’s not clear already, to this point Wendy’s has been my drive-thru drug of choice (french fries with lotsa salt, and a Frosty Float made with vanilla Frosty and Coke [that is, Coca-Cola, for all you Southerners]). But now, now I’m beginning to see. Coffee. Tasty. And really, truly, energizing. My vat o’ fat, while emotionally satisfying, is actually counterproductive as it leaves me sluggish. But coffee. Hmmm. Glorious coffee. Indulgent (the way I [and Monster Chain] make it anyway, even if it doesn’t actually qualify as coffee)? Check. Emotionally fulfilling? Check. Bonus: eegad, I’m shaking like a maniac here, ready to take on a world of people under 4 feet tall.

I am a woman of strong opinions, but never let it be said I can’t admit when I am wrong. I was wrong. I was so very wrong about coffee. I have seen the light. I need it too.

And I just bought myself my very own sippy cup.

Musical Beds

*yawn*

We were soooo close to sleeping through the night, Ry and me. Soo close. We kicked Ruthie into her own bedroom and she’s been sleeping great ever since. Hannah had stopped getting up in the night for the first time ever. But Isaac. Poor Isaac. He who had slept so well, so long. No longer. I fear it’s the scary attic. Last time I wrote about it I made it sound all sweet. And it was all sweet. Was being the operative word there. Now. Now it’s just exhausting. And mildly frustrating.

Frustrating on two levels. On the one hand there’s the fact that we used to be able to just leave him after singing some songs and praying. His eyes would be opened, he’d be in the nice relaxed zone to just drift off. He’s never been good about falling asleep with someone in the room with him. But now. Now we need to stay with him until he’s completely asleep. Totally asleep. In fact, two nights ago I came downstairs after his eyes were closed and he was all twitchy and five minutes later he comes down saying, “Where did you go? I wasn’t expecting you to be gone already.” GAH!

On the other hand is the mere fact that he’s afraid of something that doesn’t exist. Last night he told me the monster in the storage space melts into the floor when the light goes on, but comes back up when the light is off. I just want to screech out: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS MONSTERS!!!! But I know that doesn’t help. Poor, poor boy. I’m trying to be patient. I am. But last night I failed miserably.

Praise be to God, today is another day. A day to face it fresh. To come up with a new solution. And to remember that the poor boy is only six. He’s still so little. Even if he is so huge, especially compared to his sisters. He’s only six. And he’ll only be six for such a short time. Ry and I really should relish the extra snuggles we’re getting out of it, because they’re only going to diminish over time. We really should. And we will try.

And thankfully. Thankfully, I have my new best friend. My new love. My new addiction. Yep. Back to the coffee. And it almost really is coffee now. Just some sugar and half-and-half. Ok, 3 sugars and a bunch of half-and-half. But less sugar this week than last. But not BLACK like my curmudgeonly friend insists.

I have discovered something terrible . . .

Remember me and my coffee? Never really drank it at all–despite a 17-year concerted effort on the part of my husband to convince me of its splendors–until this past spring when Ruth decided waking up every hour for mommy-time was a good idea. I started drinking it as half chocolate, half coffee. I have worked hard over these months to wean off the chocolate, successfully replacing it with sugar. Now I’ve been working my way down from a bucket of sugar to just a bit. I was making progress. And then. Today. I discovered something terrible. . . .

Remember Isaac’s Ice Cream Party? That little endeavor left us with 8 different half-gallon containers of ice cream in our chest freezer as well as various ice cream toppings. Sprinkles (or jimmies, depending on where you live), crushed Newman-O’s (you know, cuz we’re worried about our heart health as we scarf 8 flavors of ice cream), maraschino cherries, three cans of Redi Whip, Hershey’s Special Dark Chocolate Syrup, Hershey’s Hot Fudge, and caramel sauce. Caramel sauce. And with the caramel sauce, I discovered something terrible. . . .

Something terribly yummy that is. Mr. Coffee? Meet Ms. Caramel. Ms. Caramel? Mr. Coffee.

Lee? Currently trembling at the keyboard buzzing high off her new best friend. Two great things that go great together. Twitch. Twitch. Shake. Shudder. Mmmmmm.

Two Friends. And the cup that brings them together.

Ya ever feel like . . .

you’re going to go positively batty making it through a day with the beautiful, splendid, funny, cute-as-can-be, deeply beloved small people charged to your care?

Nope? Me neither.

I just happen to be holed up in my bedroom with the air conditioner set at a comfy 69 degrees, the fan on a soothing white-noise High, and a couple of M&M’s I found stashed in my dresser drawer for my only company. All this for no particular reason at nearly 5 PM, sometimes known as “dinner time.”

Yep. I’m fine. Had a great day.

So, I’ll talk about how sweet these kids are. A kind of an antidote to my grumpies. (hmm. did I just use the word grumpies?) Oh. Wait. No grumpies here, I said I’m fine.

Isaac: six years old and trying to be fifty-six. As the oldest child in the house he’s convinced he’s grown up now that he’s six. The dark side: “Mommy, why do I have to wear a helmet? Mommy, look at me with my crystal wine goblet full of water that I helped myself to. Mommy, why do I have to go to bed before everyone else? ” (answer: cuz everyone else took a nap today. You, however, refused, claiming to be too old for one.) The bright side: Can I help set the table? Can I help make the pudding? Can I make my own bed? Sure, I’ll hold Hannah’s hand. Sure I’ll unbuckle her. And the absolute best sight I have ever seen: Yes, I will read Hannah her bedtime story while you put cranky, tired Ruthie to bed while Daddy’s at his Session meeting. And he did. Nothing more beautiful than entering a bedroom with your two beautiful, be-jammied babies sitting together against a single headboard, the older just finishing up reading a quite-long bedtime story to the younger who’s snuggled up against him. Beautiful.

Hannah: 3.5 years old and trying to be 1. Mama mama mama mamamamamamamamama *whine* *cry* *sniff* in the same way her younger sister does. Not sure what exactly to do with it yet. I know it’s rooted in a need for more one-on-one time for my dear, snuggly little high-touch girl. But there are only so many hours in a day for this strung-out mommy of three. However. This is when my comfort with a messy house comes in handy. I just can’t make myself prioritize the house over this sweet, sweet, tender, loving little girl who just needs to be held and snuggled. I can’t. Dust Bison and dirty dishes be damned. The bestest brightest side: Hannah’s greatest source of comfort, her “comfort corner,” if you will, has become reading a book on the couch with Mommy. Or Mama, depending on her age at the moment. When she is all strung out and whiney cry-ey and not sure whether she’s coming or going, she begs to sit and read a book with me. I hope and pray that sitting and reading a book will forever be her narcotic of choice.

Ruth: (boy, three kids makes for long posts.) Ruth is not sleeping. Just not sleeping. For weeks now. Two, three, thirty, who could count at this point? I’ve taken to drinking coffee. Coffee. Me. For seventeen years my husband has encouraged, cajoled, tempted, begged me to drink coffee with him. To join him in his happy juice. But I just don’t like it. Haven’t liked it. For a little while in the early days of our courtship, while I was still starry-eyed and willing to change myself for a man (or boy, I mean, we were only 17), I worked hard to acquire a taste for the stuff. Till I finally said, Why oh Why am I working to acquire a taste for something that’s not good for me and nutritionally unnecessary? So I stopped trying. But this past spring . . . I’ve been converted. Kinda. Cuz I can’t yet drink it without adding a heaping helping of dark chocolate (that I whip into it with something like one of these ) topped with some half and half. Coffee? Ehh. not sure yet. Yummy? You betcha. Nice little buzz? I had no idea.

Anyway, back to Ruthie, the poor girl has been dealing with her four molars breaking through all within 2 weeks’ time. Well, the fourth hasn’t made it through yet, but the rest have broken through all in quick succession. Apparently the fourth is not far behind, as she generally has her whole fist shoved in to that side of her mouth. Poor, poor baby. So we’ve had nights where husband and I go to bed at 12 AM, then between then and 6:30 when Ruth wakes up for the morning she has been up to nurse 5-6 times. You do the math. I’m too tired to work the figures. The bright side? Quiet time with a toddler who awakens me with the recently-acquired “Mama,” and greets me in short-sleeved, summertime jammies, with quite a case of blond bedhead, scrunched up blankie under her chin, sleepy eyes, and an eight-toothed grin, like there is no more welcomed sight to her. Sweet. Doesn’t even begin.

So, if I were feeling grumpy when I sat down here half an hour ago, I would be feeling much better now. Blessed. Full of warm fuzzy love. The grumpy, miserable, impatient, grace-less day washed clean, made new in the glow of the warm fuzzy mommy love. A gift from God.