Before the Coffee Gets Cold

Every morning, I make a coffee.
Every morning, I have every intention of drinking it while it’s still hot.
And almost every morning, I fail.
These days, my coffee is usually abandoned somewhere around the house. On the kitchen bench. Beside the couch. Next to a pile of folded washing that still needs putting away.
I don’t mind, though.
There’s something I like about the ritual of making it. The kettle boiling. The familiar mug. The few quiet moments before the day properly begins.
Life looks different these days.
A few months ago, I could sit and drink a coffee without interruption. Now there is usually a baby needing a feed, laundry needing attention, or something else demanding my time.
The coffee often comes second.
Sometimes I catch sight of it hours later and smile. A full mug, stone cold, exactly where I left it.
I know one day this season of life will pass. The baby will grow up. The house will be quieter. I’ll probably drink my coffee while it’s still hot.
But for now, I don’t mind.
Because these days, a cold coffee usually means something else happened instead.
A contact nap.
A book being read. 
A cuddle that lasted longer than expected.
And when I think about it like that, the coffee doesn’t feel forgotten at all.
It just had to wait.
Maybe that’s motherhood.
Making a coffee and reheating it three times.
Starting one job and finishing another.
Learning that some things can wait, and some things can’t.
So tomorrow morning, I’ll make another coffee.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll drink it before the coffee gets cold.