I was just getting the coffee maker ready for my parents breakfast tomorrow - filling it with water, putting the coffee in the basket - and suddenly a memory came into my head. A sweet memory that reminds me of why I love my husband.
About 23 - 24 years ago, when our daughter Sarah was maybe 2 1/2 or 3, she and her dad had a little evening ritual. Daddy would take her into the kitchen, and get the coffee maker out (a little two cup thing, I don't like coffee) and they would get the machine ready for the next day. He'd give her the scoop, and let her put the coffee in the basket. They'd count out the scoops - some full, some over full, some not so full - and then the basket would get put in the coffee maker.
There were often spills that I'd have to vacuum up, but no one got upset and it was a happy time that Sarah looked forward to each evening.
It wasn't until much later that I found out that my dear husband never went back and changed the amount of coffee in the basket. He took whatever strength came from the drip drip drip of water pouring through the coffee that Sarah apportioned to him the night before. He never complained.
I think I'm married to a very special man. I just have to remember from time to time just how special. I wonder if my parents are drinking the coffee I make - a non-coffee drinker who has no clue what makes a good cup of coffee - and, because I made it, not saying a word about how it tastes.... hmmm....