Wednesday, March 3, 2010

And the Award Goes To...

In the last 24 hours, I have known the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I gotta say, I'm more of a victory fan. It tastes like fun and happy, and defeat, specifically this one, tasted like my baby's sad little heart. That, people, is the most bitter taste of all. But let's start with the victory, shall we?

J and I are coffee aficionados. Starbucks would be our bean of choice, although we don't have the same coffee palates. As it turns out, I usually give in to his preference because I know that I will just run down there after taking WyoBaby to school and get my own little piece of Heaven. Perhaps I've mentioned if before? The Mocha. And now, Lord love 'em, those baristas are whipping up a new little twist on The Mocha, known as The Dark Cherry Mocha. Sweet mercy. If that doesn't do it for ya, I don't know what will...Where was I? Ah yes, J's morning cup o' Joe. J is an early riser. Well, that might be an understatement. My beloved's eyes usually first pop open around 4 in the a.m. You heard me. No, he does not have to be to work by five, unless he's traveling, which he does about twice a month. So, he awakens dark and early (no sun = no bright), and has the decency to lie in bed and let his brain run for an hour before starting his day. On a good day, he'll wait 'till 5:30 before firing up the coffee grinder, and I love him for it. The grinder is by no means a quiet apparatus. I guess the name 'grinder' sort of rules that out. If he's feeling really considerate though, he'll take said torture device in the bathroom, close the door, and run it. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a flaw in his plan. The kitchen is at the opposite end of the house from our room. The bathroom is one room away. So...you get the picture. Even with the door closed, enough of that sound invades my ears to make me hop out of bed with a blurry-eyed start, struggling to remind myself why I share space with this individual.

He can operate the grinder just fine, but when it comes to making a cup of coffee, the man struggles a bit. I, on the other hand, have what's known as a 'gift'. I can make a mean cup of coffee. He knows this, but fights it. It is written on his Y chromosome that he must, morning after morning, work at it until he has perfected his technique. It ain't happening, but he's driven by a primeval instinct which laughs in the face of logic. Two or three days a week, he'll ask me, "Okay, how do you make your coffee again?" And I will tell him, yet again, how I use my gifts for good, only to have him heave my wisdom out the Man Window. Such was our exchange last Saturday. I made the coffee, and it was great. I told him the key is to give the coffee maker the Sea Monkey Treatment (Just walk away. Ignore it. Don't even think about messing with it!!) And what does he do? Wakes up Sunday morning and makes, well frankly, a crap cup of coffee. Less than 48 hours after being taught the proper method (translation, the Right Way To Do It), the man went back to his old habits and was shocked! shocked, I tell you, that it didn't work out for him. So I made a real pot of coffee, and order was restored in the universe. And when Monday morning rolled around? He did it AGAIN! The first pot was swill, so he asked, ever-so-sweetly, if I would make him another cup of coffee. And my response? "Sure honey, I'd be glad to do that for you...If you'll say I'm the Queen of Coffee..." And he did! So there you have it! I'm the Queen of Coffee. And I'd like my crown to be made of dark chocolate covered espresso beans, thank you very much!

I was still riding high after my coronation when I woke up the girl this morning. And that's when things went sour. For me, anyway. I was in the bathroom, putting on my makeup, and she was lying on our bed, doing her best interpretation of Slug in Repose. All of a sudden, her little voice called out, "Mom! You missed Orchestra Parent Day yesterday!" I tell you, I wanted to crawl into a little hole in the earth and hide. I could feel my heart splintering as I realized what I'd done. All day long, I'd had a sense I was forgetting something, but couldn't put my finger on it. And there it was. I walked into the bedroom, my eyes welling with tears and said, "Oh baby, I'm so so sorry! I cannot believe I did that!! Do you forgive me?" And she did! "It's okay Mom, don't worry." Doesn't she just melt your heart? I felt like the biggest jerk because I remembered her handing me the slip a week ago, and I was too distracted to take the 15 seconds to write it on the calendar. And if it's not on the calendar, it doesn't happen. In that moment, it didn't matter that I help with centers in her classroom once a week, or that I'm going to coach her soccer team, or that I'm a member of the PTO, or that I'm having hot lunch with her today. All that mattered was I had forgotten something important. And with that, my chance for Mother of the Year went sailing out the window. But in the words of Scarlett O'Hara, "Tomorrow is another day," and I'm going to make sure every last thing gets put on the calendar. Next year, when I walk into the music room on Parent Day, you'll know it's me. I'll be the one wearing a coffee bean crown.

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