A Love Letter to my Coke

Ode to Coke,

You don’t judge me for opening you before the sun is fully up. You don’t ask why I haven’t eaten yet, or why I’m standing in the kitchen staring at nothing while holding my phone. You just wait patiently in the fridge, cold and reliable, knowing I’ll find you when I’m ready.

I know I’m not alone in this. I have plenty of mom friends with the same story. I don’t fully wake up or feel present without caffeine. It’s like there’s a tiny checkbox in my brain that refuses to be marked until that first sip of you happens. Until then, the world exists, but it doesn’t connect.

Before caffeine, I am not my best self.
Not my medium self.
Not even my “trying really hard” self.

Before you, I am a creature of low patience and high sigh frequency, staring into the middle distance while my brain boots up like an old desktop computer making concerning noises. Words exist, but accessing them requires effort. Sounds are louder than they should be. Lights feel personal.

If someone asks me a question before I’ve had you, I will hear it… but my soul will not participate.

This is the version of me that opens the fridge three times and forgets why. The version that holds her phone while actively searching for her phone. The version that responds to “Good morning!” with a noise that could mean anything from acknowledgment to a warning. This is also the version that has reminded everyone what time we need to leave and is somehow still the only one not ready.

And the irritability.
It’s not anger. It’s pre-caffeinated fragility.

I’m not mad that people are talking. I’m mad that talking is happening at all. I don’t want to make decisions, solve problems, or locate shoes I did not wear, buy, or move. I just want warmth, silence, and you.

Meanwhile, my son has approximately one million questions packed into the twenty minutes before school. I love him deeply. Truly. But before caffeine, each question lands like a tiny firework inside my foggy brain. I want to be present. I want to answer thoughtfully. I just can’t yet.

Then I take a sip of you.

Somewhere between the first sip and the second, the checkbox finally gets marked. The fog lifts. My shoulders drop. My eyebrows stop aggressively communicating. My thoughts line up like they’ve been waiting patiently offstage.

Suddenly, I can answer questions.
I can focus.
I can remember lunches, backpacks, and that today is, in fact, not pajama day.

There’s something deeply calming about you. Something grounding. You allow me to lock in, to be present, to meet the morning without feeling like everything is happening too loudly and all at once.

Suddenly, I am reasonable.

I laugh at jokes. I handle minor inconveniences without staring into the void. I even start sentences without resentment.

This is why you aren’t a luxury.
You’re a safety measure. Possibly a medical accommodation.

So thank you, Morning Coke, for turning me from a barely functioning creature into a mother who can hug, answer questions, find shoes, and send her kid out the door with love instead of a warning growl.

Forever yours,
A Mom Who Tried Mornings Without You Once
And Will Not Be Doing That Again 🥤