A Thousand Little Ways [a love letter to my husband]
Almost every morning, he brings me coffee.
He sets the cup on my nightstand, and I grunt and roll over. I’ve never been one to start my day jumping out of bed with a smile. A few minutes later he squeezes my shoulder before walking downstairs, offering a gentle reminder that my beloved drink is getting cold.
Even on the rare day when I wake up before everyone else, I know the coffee will be ready. The night before, he sets the pot to brew first thing in the morning. He puts my favorite mug next to it—the oversized one that will hold enough caffeine to keep me fueled for at least a few hours.
On the weekends, our coffee gets fancier. He lays out the Chemex and a filter and has measured out the correct amount of beans. Whether it’s drip coffee timed for automatic brewing at 6:30 a.m. or the good stuff meticulously brewed on a Saturday morning, I’m rarely the one to make it. He’s always done that—a little “I love you” in the form of a steaming beverage.
***
We get the three little kids in bed after a few books, pajamas, brushing teeth, and plenty of reminders to put their clothes in the dirty laundry and go potty. Inevitably, child number three needs to go to the bathroom yet again as soon as he’s tucked under all his blankets. I’m sure he plans it that way.
Then we head downstairs. Sometimes, I’m too worn out to do anything but crash on the couch. Other days, I pick up toys, wipe down the coffee table, and try to clean up enough to make space for the next day’s messes.
Continue reading at Coffee + Crumbs.
Photo by Lottie Caiella. Don’t miss the rest of this essay at C+C!
