If we were having coffee, I’d introduce you to our new as yet unnamed coffee machine.
As an early Christmas present from me to us, the coffee machine Neil bought me when we first started dating has been upgraded to something from the future. Actually, I think we should call it Jetson.
What sort of um, coffee experience would you like?
My favourite so far is a mild double-shot medium-hot latte.
In my house.
What can I get you?
After you figure that out, I’d show you the Christmas tree we put up two weeks ago.
It doesn’t look like that anymore. Isla likes to hide the decorations on us. You might be sitting on one right now.
If we were having coffee I’d tell you we took Isla to see Santa last weekend. It was in the midst of shopping, everyone was in a bad mood, and Santa might have called me the Grinch.
Before we’d lined up, Isla had a tantrum in a coffee shop because they’d run out of orange juice. It was kinda my fault.
We’d been staying in a hotel the night before. It was 300 degrees in the room, so I drank our not really endless supply of OJ that we drag around where ever we go.
We arrived to the mall early. So early, most places were still closed. Except the coffee place with no OJ.
I’m sitting there sipping what just might be the best latte I’ve ever had outside of my house. And my kid is refusing perfectly good apple juice. Because it isn’t orange. I feel kinda bad. I give her my breakfast, because hers doesn’t include anything that is orange juice.
It escalates. I tell her to calm down. Once. And then I don’t say much else. I figure she’ll fizzle out soon enough. But I’m getting looks. I can tell, because if one eye is looking at you, my other eye is looking at someone in New Jersey.
It’s useful. And it doesn’t distract me unless I notice someone looking back at me. Like last weekend. Like I am a horrible mother.
So I turn my head and this woman gets both my eyes. ‘Does she look abused, though?’ I ask.
The woman says nothing.
Neil and I count to ten with Isla and then I ask if she’s done.
‘Yeah,’ Isla says. And we high-five.
And then Isla kind of launches herself at me like she does these days. Because I’m a horrible mother.
As we are leaving, the staring woman offers to help me. ‘No thanks. But Merry Christmas,’ I say.
We are in line to see a grumpy looking Santa. Isla won’t sit with him and I want to leave. Somehow, we all end up sitting for the photo.
‘Bahumbug,’ I said. Sorry, not sorry.
‘No wonder Isla’s in a bad mood. Mum’s the Grinch.’
‘Screw you, Santa,’ I mumbled. And the photo was done.
We left, and I may have cried all the way to the toy store. Because I’m a horrible mother. Obviously. Not really.
Do you want more coffee?
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