By Sandra Beck
I have a guilty secret. My coffee machine cost more than my buggy, pram or stroller – depending on your country of origin. In fact, probably more than the combined cost of all my shoes.
My dad bought it for me for Valentine’s day. The week before our old bargainous but labor intensive espresso machine brewed its last. Three espressos in quick succession after a dinner party were just too much for its weedy little pump.
Shortly after, I unscrewed the dusty jar of instant – something desperate in my face. The pitiful sight of me pushing aside the instant and pouring boiling water onto ground coffee. “It’s not too bad” I mumbled “So long as you keep your lips pursed to stop too much crunchiness getting through”. Then I went upstairs and lay face down on the bed, with my toddler batting an old shoe on the floor beside me.
My dad squared up to his duties as a provider – and went out to provide me with the biggest most automatic coffee monster he could get. I press a button – and out pours espresso. No unnecessary hot water to handle, no cleaning between use.
I rationalize it on an hourly rate basis – it’s much quicker to use than the other machine. Just because it is me at home, doesn’t mean my time isn’t valuable.
I don’t really know what it is about coffee and me. It in equal measure powers me through the sleep deprivation of parenting, and gives me back the manic sparkle that I associate with the ‘real’ me. The role it plays in my life is to punctuate my days with pleasant uplifting little interludes. It’s an indulgence, for sure. However, I suspect its a justified indulgence. You can’t put a price on Mom keeping her sense of humor.