There’s a sacred moment in the morning. A moment where the world is still quiet, the chaos hasn’t begun yet, and there’s a hot cup of coffee sitting in front of me—waiting. This is it. This is the moment.
I pick it up, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. I take a deep breath, inhaling that rich, magical aroma. This is going to be good. This is going to be my time to sit, to reset, to enjoy something for myself before the day swallows me whole.
And then—
WAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
Cue the baby. Right on time.
My shoulders drop. My soul deflates. I stare at the coffee, knowing exactly what’s about to happen.
I set it down, already lukewarm, already forgotten. Because when the baby cries, nothing else matters.
I pick her up, bounce her, shush her, rock her. Maybe she needs a diaper change. Maybe she’s just hungry. Maybe she just knows that I was about to enjoy something, and her tiny baby instincts decided that couldn’t happen.
As I pace the living room, holding her close, I glance over at my abandoned coffee. It sits there, judging me. Mocking me. It’s not even steaming anymore.
Eventually, she settles. I lay her down ever so gently, like I’m diffusing a bomb. I tiptoe back to the coffee, whispering a silent prayer that I might still get to enjoy it. I lift the mug to my lips, take a sip, and—
“Mommmmmm! I can’t find my shoes!!”
Of course.
I sigh, set the mug down again, and go solve the next crisis of the morning.
By the time I get back, the coffee is officially cold. Dead. A sad, forgotten victim of motherhood. I stare at it, debating whether to reheat it in the microwave—because we all know that’s where coffee goes to die again—or just chug it cold.
I take a sip. Yep. Disgusting.
And just like that, the moment is gone. The quiet is gone. The day has officially begun, and I already know I won’t be drinking another hot sip of coffee until next year.
Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be different. But I’m not getting my hopes up.
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