Why a Mother’s Coffee is ALWAYS Cold

6.30am, my eyes are stinging, I’ve been up three times in the night and oh-my-God my head is pounding with exhaustion. There is only one cure for this: COFFEE. Sweet, HOT, strong, lovely, velvety caffeine fuel to power up the day like something from the Power Rangers. Especially as Elsa and Ana are apparently in full swing in the middle of the living room. FML.

Making coffee, quite frankly, feels too much like hard work and I find myself cursing why the FUCK I thought it was a good idea to be all middle-class swanky and have a cafetiere when RIGHT NOW Kenco Instant would do the job perfectly. I trudge, as if wading through mud, the short distance between sink to hob, hob to sink, and fill kettle, back to hob, turn on hob, and the water starts to boil which takes bloody ages because I also thought that it would be terribly middle-class and cottage-y to have a hob kettle instead of a bloody normal person’s electric one that boils in half the time.

It finally screeches out at me like a hyena on speed, and I grit my teeth and set my jaw at the din that is now complemented by ‘Let It Go’ at full pelt, not one right word in the whole bloody song. I slug three full tablespoons of the magic powder into the pot and pour in the water. I sit back, rub my eyes and pray that there is at least a Doc McStuffins or Peppa or My Family on the telly so that the kids will be a bit quieter and I can drink it in peace while it is still hot. Finally after a three minute long wait, it’s brewed, and I pour that gorgeous, silky brown nectar of the gods into my favourite Emma Bridgewater mug, sit down in my favourite chair, take a sip, and…DAMMIT.

“I need a poo!”

“Can I have a drink? I want wine Mummy, like you Mummy!”

“Mummy I lubber pulling your boobies”

“I done poo Mummy! It’s on the floor.”

<microwave coffee, 1 min 30 secs>

“Help me! I’m stuck!”

“Get off ME! GET OFF ME MUMMY! I FINE!”

“What are these mouse things Mummy?” (Tampons. Don’t put them in the toilet. I MEAN IT)

“Mummy, you got a baby in your tummy? A baby boy in your tummy?” NO. I’m just plain old fat.

“I WANT A BABY! NOT YOU FAT!”

“Let’s build the train track!”

<Re-microwave coffee>

“I hate trains. I want to dress up!”

“I hate dressing up, I want to play with my baby!”

“Babies are boring. I want to play with bleach!” (Only joking. Ha. Ha. Ha. That’s what sleep deprivation does to your mum humour.)

“I want to do painting, NOW!”

“IT boring.”

<Re-re microwave coffee>

“Play-doh! Play-Doh! PLAY-DOH!”

“I done it” (That was 3 minutes, a fucking record.)

“It’s mine! NO! It’s MINE!”

“Let’s make a cake! I’ll get all the flour out Mummy and we can… ooops. Mummmmmy! The flour is all over the floooor!”

“Let’s go into the garden!”

“Maggie is digging in the cat-poo bit Mummy!”

<RE-RE-RE MICROWAVE COFFEE>

“I’m hunnnngry”

“I no LIKE THAT, I not want that, I not like cheese/pasta/bread” (delete as appropriate)

“I jumping on your bed Mummy!”

“Mummy! We broken your bed!”

“Let’s RACE!”

“I hurt myself Mummy, wahhhhh!”

<RE-RE-RE-RE MICROWAVE THE FUCKING COFFEE>

“Mummy, I spilt my drink!”

“Mummy, I broke it!”

“Mummy, Maggie is waving her knife in my face!”

“Mummy, I lubber you, you are all squishy and squashy”

<8 hours later..>

I slump into my favourite chair, in a dramatic flounce, and as I do, my hand flicks against a random object sitting on the table next to me and flings it to the floor. The fucking COLD COFFEE CUP. The bastard coffee that I have waited all day to enjoy is NOW SPLOSHED IN BIG POOL ON THE FLOOR, up the wall and all over the side of my chair. I wave my hands in the air, cursing the Gods of Parenting, and Coffee, and Time.

I’m done. I’m out. And I miss you, hot coffee, my old friend. I really bloody MISS YOU.

About Kate Dyson

Founder of The Motherload®. Wife, mum to two girls, two cats and shit loads of washing in baskets that sit around the house waiting to be ironed. It never happens.

Hater of exercise, denier of weight gain, lover of wine.

Feminist.

Twitter: @mrskatedyson