My Unborn Sons Are Already Snobs

Couple of updates, and then I’ll explain the title.

First, I’m still sick.  This is a very stubborn cold-type-thing, and it’s getting on my damn nerves.  Go away, already!  Nobody likes you!

Second (and this is a compound one), Monday I had my Glucose Tolerance Test.  Yes, the three hour affair that I told you about previously.  It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t too bad, either, and I expect the results either tomorrow or Monday.  But, as you might imagine, I was quite hungry and thirsty when I was done with that business, so on my way home from the doctor’s office, I stopped off to pick up some lunch.  I’d been craving a burrito from Moe’s for, like, a decade (or so it seemed), so you bet your sweet blueberry muffins I picked up one of those suckers!  I got it home and unwrapped it.  The anticipation was almost as delicious as the burrito itself.  It’s moments like that that I truly love being pregnant.  You know, that moment when you actually get what  you were craving, and it tastes so incredibly good.  Food doesn’t taste like that, normally.  If it did, cooking shows would be Pay-Per-View, I kid you not.  Our grandmothers would have warned us that eating would make us go blind.  Anyway, so, I’m about halfway through this magnificent burrito when I finally get around to checking my Facebook for the first time that day and discover that a long-time friend of the family (not like one of my parents’ friends, but actually one of us kids’ friends) had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away and that his service was that day in my hometown about three hours away.

Suddenly, my burrito was not all that important or tasty.

And some people are inclined to kinda brush this sort of thing off.  Like, you say “old friend” and it somehow means that this person wasn’t quite as important to you as your “not-old” friends.  No, we (my sibs and I) grew up with this guy.  He was one of my brother’s best friends for a very long time.  There are some other details that might make this all seem even more tragic, but I don’t feel like I need to justify my grief.  Suffice it to say, I didn’t finish my burrito for a couple of hours.  I’m better today.  And I’ll be even better tomorrow.

If I were a better — or at least a more thoughtful and experienced — writer, there would be a graceful subject change here.  But I’m not all that bothered right now, and you’re (most likely) a grown-up, so use your imagination.

So, Andrew has this coffee pot.  Okay, that’s a little misleading.  You say coffee pot and it involves images of plastic and glass and heating plates and timers and annoying paper filters.  It involves something you can get at Wal-mart for $19.99.  This, that we’re talking about, is not that.  It’s not that at all.  It’s a percolator.  And even that is misleading, because you say “percolator” and you think of some God-awful avocado-green contraption from the 70s that you plug into the wall.  This is not that, either.  This thing is stainless steel and breaks down into three pieces (one for the water, one for the coffee grounds, one for the final product) and, once you’ve brought all the necessary ingredients together, goes on the stove to do its magic.  At its maximum capacity, it makes two very modest sized cups of coffee.

When I first encountered this thing, I was baffled.  Why would anyone ever choose to make coffee this way?  It doesn’t even have any buttons or switches, for God’s sake!  Seriously!  It was also kinda scary.  Really, the process of making coffee with this thing was no more complicated, tedious, or time-consuming than it was to make coffee with a “traditional” drip coffee maker like the one my parents have, but it was just so terribly… foreign to me.

Andrew very generously explained the steps to me, and kindly made me my own tiny pot of coffee with it.  He told me these types of coffee pots were rather common in Italy.  He pointed out the noises it made and how it meant that the coffee was ready.  He also warned me that this process made rather strong coffee, so be ready for it.  Gimme a break, I thought, it can’t be that strong (completely forgetting that Italians came up with espresso).  So, I doctor up my little cup of coffee, somewhat annoyed that it was so tiny, and took a sip.  Yes, it was stronger than I imagined it would be.  But, my God, did that strange little percolator make a damn good cup of coffee!

And I say all of that to say this.  I very rarely drink coffee these days.  I’ve drastically cut down my daily caffeine intake during this pregnancy.  Really, if you knew me in high school, you’d be impressed.  While caffeine during pregnancy is not a no-no, too much of it might cause problems, and when you’re not paying attention to what you eat and drink, it’s pretty easy to get too much.  So, I pretty much dropped coffee, opting to satisfy my caffeine addiction in easier-to-monitor ways.  But, every now and then, I indulge.  And if I drink a cup of coffee, it’s only ever just the one, and I avoid all other forms of caffeine for the rest of the day.  This is almost exclusively when I visit my parents.  Before I moved out, my dad and I would sit at the breakfast table and drink coffee together and talk.  This was important to me because we drank a grown-up drink and talked about grown-up things and it really made me feel like my father accepted me as an adult whose opinion he respected.  So, when Andrew and I visit my parents, we still do this (including Andrew).

Now, my babies, I believe, have gotten used to my modest daily caffeine intake.  It doesn’t phase them much.  They might get a little more active for about ten or fifteen minutes, but then they go right back to their normal routines of playing with each other and trying to rearrange my hip bones.  Except for when I make the very rare cup of coffee with Andrew’s amazing Italian percolator.  My hand to God, they can tell the difference between it and the not-as-good coffee at my parents’ house, and they like the stove-top coffee better.

Not even born yet, and they have coffee preferences.  God help me.


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