It’s the little things…

It’s the little things….

Finding Starbucks… a coffee addicts pursuit of the Holy Grail

First let me start off with a few facts. I love coffee. I was raised sipping the last black drops from my  mothers morning cup. My blood type is Columbian Roast +. My love for this heavenly bean is definitely an obsession. In fact, I have my coffee maker prepped every night before I go to bed, for the convenience of flipping a switch at 6 am and “Voila!” Five minutes and a packet of Stevia later…hot, steaming, “coffee crack”.

Few things intimidate me.

Since I entered my 40′s , I’ve faced cancer, surgeries, gray hair and the dreaded teen years with two of my three children, along with being the proud host of a hormone patch, so I find that very little shakes me.

Previously only frivolous feminine venues have made me cower. Victoria’s Secret stores and Merle Norman make-up counters were on my short list of things that make me want to stop and run in the opposite direction. But now I can add Starbucks to my little list of intimidators.

My husband recently gave me a gift certificate to Starbucks and even though it has been around for years and years, I have never been to one. So, being the researcher that I am, I felt compelled to type the words, “How to order a cup of Coffee at Starbucks” as my Google query and knew I was in trouble when I found there were 618,000 results to choose from. Evidently I was not the only Coffee Kiosk virgin in the world.

I heard friends tell me how much they loved the coffee there, but never could find a reason to buy a 5 dollar cup of  java when I could buy nearly a can of my favorite roast and have an entire hot pot at my disposal for an entire morning of writing, cooking, cleaning and “Googling”.  

When I clicked on my first “how to” I found it listed not one, but SEVEN steps to ordering coffee at Starbucks.

Step 1. Determine the size. Well this seemed simple, I would assume small, medium or large would be my choices, but upon reading further I found that Starbucks has actually invented it’s own Coffee Language.  “Tall, Grande and Venti” were the substitutes and they seemed to have the same meaning. Except for that last one, that’s just obnoxious. I was confused, all I wanted was a hot cup of coffee with hazelnut and Stevia.

Step 2. Decaf or Regular. Finally, I knew this lingo. I knew I would be taking mine in it’s original high octane form. This was a no- brainer. I actually felt a bit more empowered.

Step 3. Be prepared for milk free coffee. Okay. Mine comes that way. Where have these people been getting their coffee?

Steps 4-6. Specify the ‘type” of milk, “how “you like it, and “where” it originates…a city cow, free-range bovine or a soybean. Okay, now its just downright ridiculous. Low-fat, Whole or Non-fat. Low foam, extra foam, half, chocolate, extra dry, the list went on and on…I had to keep reading just to see how it would end.

Finally Step 7. Choose your flavoring. Caramel, chocolate,  hazelnut or vanilla.

No wonder this calorie free beverage has now become more fattening than a Big Mac and twice as expensive.

Just when I thought I was done with my foot long tutorial I read the disclaimer at the bottom…”Not all coffee houses have the same language, a coffee you order at your Starbucks may not be the same coffee at another location” Are they kidding me? All this to find out it really is a toss up anywhere I go? What a waste of my time.

I was determined to use my $10.00 gift certificate and go see exactly what I’ve been missing. So I put on my brown corduroy jacket and headed out into the cold, determined to come home with a cup of caffeine that would make Mr. Coffee cry and hide his shameful face in the corner.

I pulled into the parking lot and took the last available space and sat there for a moment and put on my game face. After all the hype, I was prepared for the Coffee Nazi to take my java rights away if I dared to stutter or repeat myself so I tried to remember what I had learned earlier.

I walked in and found myself not in a rushed high society- “when in doubt, pinkies out” coffeetorium, but instead a room awash in Mom Jeans, lap tops and one male presence texting in the corner.

I admitted to the barista that I didn’t know what I was doing. He was non-plussed. I am assuming he gets newbies daily and is just tired of suggesting “exotic” coffees for us stay at home Moms to wash the taste of Chock Full o’ Nuts (my favorite coffee) off our tongues.

So he suggested a “Latte, espresso, blah, blah, blah, with hazelnut, blah, blah, something about foam” in a Venti, which is Starbucks lingo for large.

What I got for my $4.68 was a nice cup of coffee. Not too hot, not too cold, with a foamy top that resembled hot meringue and a solid coffee flavor with a punch of espresso that would later give me turbo power. It was delicious. But it seemed almost as if I was sitting at the grown up table at Thanksgiving for the first time. I felt a bit out of place and unworthy of such an inspired and crafted, adult beverage. I missed the comfort of my insulated mug from the dollar store and the knowledge that my daily calorie intake wasn’t going to be spent in liquid form.

So I traveled home with my cup made from recycled paper in it’s “go green” cardboard sleeve and sat on the couch and supped upon it with reflection. Turning over the flavor and appreciating the attention to detail that went into my cup.

Then, later that night, I prepped my coffee maker for the next morning, cleaned out the pot and took a bit more time to make sure I had my measurements right, my Stevia supply and plenty of store bought creamer, placed my insulated mug on stand-by and then quietly and with affection… smiled. For I possessed the knowledge that few do, I had already found my holy grail.

Son shine on my shoulders…

It’s hard for me to believe that William, my oldest will be 18 years old this month. I can’t believe that this 6’2″ man/child was ever small enough to fit in my arms. Just yesterday his little head would rest on my shoulder after a burping and fall asleep, leaving a small crusty remnant of his last meal there. I remember the first six months of his life I smelled baby formula whenever I turned my head. I wore those little stains with pride. I considered it an honor to have this child. This tiny token of love that God had given us to raise.

When William was born, he was considered a miracle to me as he was preceeded by a brother that only made it through the second trimester of my first pregnancy. Each day I was pregnant with William was filled with caution and I was aware of every kick, turn and hiccup. I cherished every moment and every day that he greeted me with a kick to the ribs or a jab to the kidneys. Dave would rub my belly and call to him “Willie, this is your Daddy, I know you’re in there”…and we never knew for sure what the sex of any of our children would be, but we just felt he was a Willam, and indeed he was.

He arrived after what seemed days of labor, red faced and hungry. He taught me how to be a mother. I owe all I am as a mother to my children. There are no instructions booklets that prepare you for parenting. They may write books, but nothing prepares you for that first look into your baby’s eyes when you know that you are in charge and have been given this awesome responsibility of caring for Gods greatest creation. I actually felt a bit unworthy of such precious life. Was God sure I could handle this?

The first weeks, I wondered. William had a bit of colic and fought breast feeding because he wanted the feeling of a full belly. So we switched to bottle feeding and he was immediately at ease. His belly could be full, he was satiated and happy. All was well.

Time that Dave and I used to spend watching TV was now spent watching William for hours each evening. We waited for every milestone to hit, the rolling over, the belly crawls and then finally standing up on his own. With each phase,  William went for it with fervor. He went from toddling to running immediately. He was a powerhouse. Up and down the hall he would run, back and forth over and over without tiring and just watching him was exhausting. Moving those tiny legs on his wagons, ride alongs and before we knew it he was riding a bike without training wheels around the court.

We used to laugh at him on his tiny bike that he adored. He was just 4 and already his legs were too long for his beginner bike. He looked like a bear riding a trike in the circus…legs all bent up to his chin, but he loved that bike and would not trade up until the treads finally wore through the tires.

Now he has traded his bicycles for car keys. I get behind the wheel of our Earth Destroyer 9000 and have to move the seat up 5 inches to reach the brakes after he has been in the drivers seat. I have to adjust the mirrors and it’s a reminder of how much he has grown in just 18 years, from that tiny baby to this beanpole of a man. Sometimes I sit there from his perspective for just a moment and let the reality of time sink in. How fast it has all come to this point; where boyhood meets manhood and the inevitable adult milestone is reached.

All those times when I would be anxious for him to sleep through the night, walk on his own, have more independence from me, I now wish I hadn’t rushed. To do it all again I would do gladly. The good, the bad and the sleepless nights but maybe I would cherish them a bit more, breathe them in a bit deeper and appreciate more of the small things. How his hand would fit in mine, how his toes resembled peas all nesting up against one another, how sweet the back of his neck smelled and how he looked at me like I was his world, when in reality he was mine.

So for this Mama seeing my son turn 18 is bittersweet. But I am so proud of the man he has become. He is sweet and kind, funny and intelligent. He still shows me how to be a better parent every day by being such a wonderful son. He will walk out of November as a man to the rest of the world, but to me he will always be….. my baby.