Dear teenage girl,
I ordered a caramel latte from you and as I pulled out of the parking lot and took a sip, I was deeply, soul-crushingly saddened to find that whatever I was drinking was not the delicious milky, caramel-y treat I had requested, but some bitter awful Satan brew.
I quickly experienced a range of emotions. Denial (“maybe it was just the first sip,”) anger (“how could she do this to me?!”) sadness (“I’m going to pull over right here to cry,”) and despair (“how will I go on?”). “Get over it,” I can hear you say, “it’s just coffee. Don’t you have real problems?” I’m so glad you asked. Let me tell you about my real problems.
My child no longer sleeps well. He wakes up every hour on the hour, screaming bloody murder and will not be soothed back to sleep for hours. Hours spent screaming.
He’s teething, too, so he’s chewing on everything, but prefers the soft, delicate skin of my inner arm.
He poops constantly. Just huge, monster poops. Ones that escape his diaper and end up all over my pants and kitchen floor.
He saves his spit-up for when I least expect it, like when he’s doing tummy time on my chest, allowing the spit-up to run down my neck towards my ears.
He loves car rides, right up until he throws his pacifier just out of reach and then screams until I pull over on a busy highway to climb into the backseat to retrieve it.
He’s an amazing little boy, don’t get me wrong, but we’re going through a rough patch and that latte was the only thing getting me through the day.
I know this is a minimum wage job. I know you’d probably rather be anywhere else. I know this is not a life and death situation. I know it’s a #firstworldproblem. I know that, and it’s why I didn’t turn the car around to demand you correct it, I just came home. But I’m writing this letter because I had a lot of feelings that I needed to get off my chest (due to my continuing post-childbirth hormonal surges) and because I hope next time a woman comes through your line with weird stains on her shirt, unwashed hair, and purple bags under her eyes, you bring your A-game and deliver the right order because that coffee might be the only thing between her and a padded room complete with straight jacket.
A woman on the edge (who is drinking your awful coffee anyway because dammit I paid $3 for it and need the caffeine)