Helping?

I am not a morning person, which is a very clear and established fact. My favorite way to spend an early morning is to bypass it completely and sleep in late.

But I work, so that's not really an option. Instead, I rely on a crutch--coffee--to get me to a semi-coherent state before I hit the freeway.

I love my morning coffee. I love the rich, hazelnutty smell wafting through the kitchen as it brews; I love the sweet, creamy richness of it on my tongue; and I love the jolt of caffeine that hits my nervous system suddenly, immediately, sending me from that groggy, sleepy state to an alert "Let's do this!" state.

So yes, I love my coffee. I am very particular about my coffee, and honestly, the only thing I want before coffee is for everybody to leave me and my coffee alone.

As was also clearly established, I have a son named Mark. Mark is not a morning person, either, which makes things a bit...delicate...in those early hours. I try not to engage him too much upon waking, and honestly, I'd be most happy if we just got up and got ready with no interaction at all until after breakfast. I don't need a lot out of the mornings; mostly, I just need Mark ready to leave on time.

But Mark sees things differently. The boy who never wants to help cook or clean suddenly wants to help make my coffee. I think it makes him feel mature; he likes making a grown-up beverage.

And here's where we run into the problem.

As with most other things, Mark likes to do things his way. Never mind that it's not his coffee, and he won't drink any of it...what's most important to Mark is having control, and exerting that control, even over something that's not his.
 
Like my coffee.

When he first started making it, I tried to channel my kind, loving sister-in-law Mari. I thanked Mark profusely for his help. I praised him for his creativity (marshmallows in my coffee--how original!). I agreed he was improving my health (you're right, I could use less--or no--sugar) and encouraging new tastes (you're right, this coffee is much, much, MUCH stronger!).

But I am not Mari. I could only emulate her kind and loving ways for so long until my true nature burst through. (Being Mari is hard to begin with; being Mari before coffee is impossible!)

So I tried to be myself, only less so. I resisted my primal urge to yell "LEAVE THE COFFEE ALONE!" I once again thanked Mark for helping, then pointed out his efforts were better spent elsewhere.

"I love that you want to help," I told him. "You know what really helps me the most? When you're ready to leave on time!"  He smiled and nodded, I smiled and nodded, and I thought we had an understanding.

But the next day, he handed me my coffee again. I cursed silently, then smiled and sipped it. I swallowed a mouthful of coffee grounds and gagged.

"Yeah, something went wrong," Mark frowned, inspecting the coffeemaker. "All the grounds fell in the coffee pot."

And you poured it anyway??? I wanted to scream. Channel Mari, I thought instead.

"Well, thanks for trying anyway!" I said, smiling like I meant it.

The next morning, I raced to the coffeepot, just barely beating Mark.

"Already took care of it!" I said, hitting the Start Brew button. "You don't have to make my coffee again. Ever. Seriously!"

It sounded a little harsh, so I tried softening the message.

"What helps MOST in the morning is you feeding and dressing yourself," I said. "Just do that--it helps me more than ANYTHING else, even making my coffee. So...PLEASE don't make my coffee any more!"

I was sure that was specific enough even for Mark.

I showered, dressed, and hummed a little tune, anticipating the caffeinated joy that awaited me. But my joy completely disappeared when I saw this next to the coffee pot:

"I made you a mocha!" Mark beamed. "I'm already dressed, and I already ate. I hurried so I could fix your coffee."

I sighed, crestfallen. All I could think of was the song "Helping" from the '70s album Free to Be, You and Me:

Now, Zachary Zugg took out the rug
And Jennifer Joy helped shake it
Then Jennifer Joy, she made a toy
And Zachary Zugg helped break it.

And some kind of help is the kind of help
That helping's all about
And some kind of help is the kind of help
We all can do without.

This was definitely the kind I could do without. But I had two options here: Smile and fake it, or bite his sweet little head off and forever hide the coffeemaker. I went with the first one.

I smiled and sipped the "mocha," then gagged.

"That is...awful!" I admitted, wiping my mouth. I looked to my little barista, worried I'd hurt his feelings, but Mark's a tough guy. He just shrugged, and said, "Tomorrow, I'll--"

--drink the coffee at work, I thought. Because sometimes, you really just have to pick your battles. 

Especially if those battles occur before 7 a.m.