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Writings on Motherhood, Judaism, and Happily-Ever-Afters

Mornings are not my thing

I know this.  I wake up bleary eyed and vaguely incoherent.  I can stagger to the coffee pot, turn it on, and then go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, switch over the laundry and throw in a new load.  By that time, the coffee is usually done, so I can pour the first cup and start my day.

Marc didn’t make the coffee last night.

Faced with having to make the coffee, I stepped up.  I grabbed that fragile, fragile glass carafe, and promptly slammed it into the faucet in a misguided attempt to fill it.  It cracked a little, but just a little, so I kept going. Filled it up, and walked it across the kitchen to pour it into the coffee maker, at which point it started leaking EVERYWHERE, spilling cold water all over the counter, my bare feet, the floor, etc.

It hasn’t been a good morning.

But since the coffee maker itself was still functional, and I REALLY wanted that coffee, I make it anyway.  I used a saucepan.

 

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