Blood Type Coffee

It was a rough morning.  I couldn't get a snarled rubber band out of Eden's tangled mane.  She cried hysterically.  No Cheerios -- one of four foods he happily eats -  pissed Chad off, and Remi wanted to know how her vocal chords worked?

All I could generate was a low pitched grumble.  Children, read my mind.  Have you seen me touch coffee to my lips?  Have you heard the melodic drip and whir of my coffee machine?  Anyone hear the tear of my Splenda packet?  Did you see my ogre persona recede back into its hiding place?  Children, if you've answered no to anyone of these questions, it's recommended you steer clear of the hazards ahead.  Mommy Liza is a monster.

I was only able to snap to when Remi, hand under her chin, big hazel eyes dead locked on the barberry beast standing at the kitchen sink said, "Mom, just drink your coffee and be happy.  Everything will be okay."  How right she was.

Without my morning coffee getting my legs into separate underwear holes is a challenge.  I have to force myself to brush my teeth.  Without a.m. coffee simple questions like, "what's the weather today, mom?" become hard as an advanced calculus problem.  I can't give blood because my blood type is the rarest of types:  Caffeine positive.  I am only with heartbeat before noon when I have caffeine dancing in my cells.

With coffee try and stop me.  I'm super in heroic proportions.  Every bed gets made military style, quarter tested.  I can learn how to in French and then one-handedly perform a fish-tail braid on Remi while frying up the bacon.

Mission Accomplished

Breakfast can take on Mother's Day brunch style proportions.  Want to paper mache before school sweethearts?  No problem.  There is nothing I can't do.  Does this make me an addict?   Am I something I preach against to my children -- a substance junkie?  Of course I am.  It's an excellent thing that coffee is coffee and not methamphetamine -- my addiction makes me a better version of me not a version of me that wants to take televisions apart.  Literally, my addiction makes the world a much better place for my children and the cast of surrounding characters that pour into and out of my cup of life every day.

Liquid Manna from Heaven

If there is anyone to blame for my addiction, it's the symbiotic partnership between my children and Starbucks.  My kids need me to be flexible like a Cirque Du Soleil performer, smarter than a fifth grader and inventive like J.K. Rowling.  Starbucks Breakfast Blend makes it all possible.  My kids have seen the alternative.  It's called Yom Kippur, the most solemn religious fast of the Jewish year.  By the time we break fast, I have already racked up a year's worth of new and horrific parenting sins I'll have to apologize for the following year.  In the interim, I take solace in knowing that Starbucks will never judge me.  Drink up.