My birthday was yesterday. In honor of the occasion I have a confession to make.
It’s a big one.
It might get me kicked out of the mom club, if there were such a thing as a mom club.
I don’t like coffee.
I’ve never been to Starbucks. I wouldn’t know what to order if I were to go. We have a coffee maker, but it’s sitting on a kitchen shelf gathering dust. I’ve had a cappuccino here or there, made from instant powder bought at the grocery store, but it isn’t something I crave. The warmth is soothing on brisk, early mornings, but I could do the same with hot chocolate. And hot chocolate comes with marshmallows.
I feel like as an aging parent, though, especially a mom of 3 little kids, I’m expected to drink coffee. That it’s weird not to. Like the commercials with a woman in slippers and bedhead, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.” I’m supposed to revel in the aroma and sigh heavily into that initial sip of mocha. That first cup, an instant transformation into supermom.
Maybe that’s why I’ve never earned my superpowers.
I feel like a fraud.
A 31 year old fraud.
Man, I’m old.