When Spenser is settled with his morning juice and fruit and whatever protein we agree upon that I can cut into pieces and put in an bowl, so he can eat and play, I make my tea. I make myself one up of PG Tips tea with low fat milk (though when I was sick these last 6 weeks, I had it with lemon and honey.)

It’s not a passion, though. I don’t wake up thinking, I gotta have my tea, Man. Truthfully, I usually forget about it until Spense is settled, and then realize, oh I get a nice little treat.

It was all different with coffee.

I was a dedicated coffee drinker and lover for almost 20 years. I started in college because my college boyfriend drank it; with milk. Twin Peaks, one of the greatest shows of all times, was on the air and it glamorized strong, black coffee (along with cherry pie, sawmills, log ladies, one armed men, backwards talking dwarfs, and dark, smoldering, worlds of murder, 60’s clothes and hunky detectives and suspects. I went in that direction; the strong black coffee way, that is.

I began to look down upon those who added milk or (ugh) sugar. It’s not coffee anymore, if you mask all the flavor. Would you add milk to a beautiful glass of Syrah?

I was 20 and was waitressing at a restaurant that served really good, dark French roast and I drank a ton of it. Black. I felt buzzed and I got addicted and I loved it.

For my entire adult life, I’d go to sleep excited about the next morning’s coffee. I’d wake up in the morning and my first thought was “Coffee!!” I’d run to the coffee machine, salivate, crave and ache as the water gurgled and steam rose and the brown liquid dripped. The smell would hit and my need increased. I couldn’t function until the first hot, rich mouthful hit me and traveled to the parts of my brain that told my body it was getting its fix. I was addicted and I loved it. I loved needing it because I loved the taste so much.

I was a coffee snob too. I’d refuse it and suffer if the coffee was weak or tasteless or *shudder* instant. If I was at a place where I didn’t like the drip coffee, I’d order a latte or some other espresso drink, but not truly be satisfied. I socialized with coffee drinkers and I laughed at the word tea. Tea was hot water, as far as I was concerned. 20 years, I lived like this.

When I went to The Fancy Clinic and The Good Clinic, all the doctors told me to better my chances of having a baby, I needed to cut out all caffeine. The acupuncturist told me this too.

I was terrified and freaked out to be without my drug, but without hesitation, I agreed I’d do it; not even a thought of cheating.
I did it. It was miserable. I cried a lot. I had headaches and mood swings and fits, but my determination to quit caffeine was a clear indicator of how much I wanted my baby. I gave up what had been my greatest pleasure and truest addiction, as if giving it up was my guarantee that I’d get pregnant.

I got pregnant about 5 months later. I had friends who had gotten pregnant without giving up caffeine and I was jealous of that but ultimately, it didn’t matter, because I was having my baby and my world was changing.

I didn’t return to coffee while nursing, for obvious reasons. I didn’t ever do decaf because of the chemicals they use in the decaffeinating process. I bought water processed for a while, but still felt a caffeine buzz.

Sometime, Now, I have a cup of coffee, as a treat and to my horror, that crazy passion I’d had for it, is gone. It is weird. That deep, dark longing for coffee was replaced with a mild, “Mmmmm, tasty.” Ugh. How boring and almost not worth it.

So I stick to a cup of PG Tips or decaf Irish breakfast tea with milk. It is yummy, but not life changing. If I went without, I’d barely miss it.

My priorities changed. My passion changed. My addiction is gone. Sometimes, I want to be addicted again. I miss the way I loved coffee. I miss the excitement I felt when I was about to have some. I guess coffee was my youth. Coffee was my no responsibility life priority. I wonder if I’ll go back to it. I want to. I think about someday, when Spenser is busy with his friends and doesn’t need me anymore, maybe I’ll turn to coffee again; give me something to look forward to each day, besides being needed as a mom. Maybe even sooner, like maybe I’ll work on getting addicted again when he goes to preschool.