The other morning I was struck with a craving familiar to many Americans but decidedly foreign to me. I wanted — gasp! — a cup of coffee.
According to a survey last year by National Coffee Association USA, 61 percent of Americans consume coffee on a daily basis. You should take this finding with a grain of sweetener (hehe) since the association’s mission is to promote coffee’s popularity. That said, even if the real percentage of Americans who drink java daily is half of what the survey is reporting, that’s still a ton of people.
But, until recently, I was not among the caffeinated masses. I recognize this is peculiar because this means I survived countless all-nighters writing papers and studying for exams at a competitive college without a coffee cup by my side. I went on to work in frenzied newsrooms where survival-via-coffee (well, that and candy) was more or less the norm … and I still abstained.
I wasn’t taking some high moral stance on the beverage. I just didn’t like the taste and found that the caffeine impacted me far too strongly — my fairly vivacious self devolved into a chattering basket case even after just a half a cup.
And then came toddler no. 2.
My first years few years of motherhood were also caffeine-free. But once my second child reached toddlerhood and became entrenched in his terrible twos, I caught the coffee bug big time. On one recent, chaotic morning, after a succession of sleep-deprived nights — night after night, the children graciously took turns waking me at all hours for a variety of creative reasons — I found myself stealing a furtive glance at our latest kitchen gadget. It was a one-cup coffee machine — the kind that requires just a coffee pod, a cup of water, a push of a button, and POOF! One steaming cup of joe is ready for your imbibing, no pots or grounds required.
The machine was a Christmas gift from my sister-in-law. I wasn’t thrilled with her generosity at first, given my long-time aversion to coffee. Sure, here was something for my two-cup-a-day hubby, but for me it might as well have been an oversized paperweight.
That fateful morning, I gave it a chance. I made sure to lace the final product with plenty of milk and sugar, took a deep breath and sipped. It tasted … pretty good.
I kept going. Pretty soon, I reached the bottom of the mug. I braced for the jitters to kick in but there were none. Apparently, my motherly exhaustion had managed to squelch my body’s tendency to treat a cup of coffee like a snort of cocaine. But I did find myself feeling more energetic and that mattered a lot.
Suddenly, the once-dreadful process of changing my rambunctious toddler from pajamas into regular clothes was fun. Trying to get away from me, eh, little guy? I’ll catch you, squirmy pants! Frying some breakfast while the older kid incessantly demands chocolate milk? No problem — let me quickly pour you a glass, buddy, and then I’ll be back to flipping that omelet before a single spot is singed brown.
All at once, I understood the memes flooding my Facebook feed in praise of coffee, especially from fellow moms. It all made sense now — the reverence, the dependence, the addiction …
But surely, some of the effect is psychosomatic, isn’t it? Coffee isn’t some sort of magical wonder drink that can transform a bleary-eyed mommy into butt-kicking morning maven, is it?
Is it?
I don’t know that, but I do know that I’m sure as heck going to keep drinking it. National Coffee Association, meet your new best friend. I am the 61 percent.
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