I wake up to the sound of drip coffee instead of cries for the first time in weeks. Maybe I’ll get to drink half the mug while it’s still hot, too. The nursery rocking chair squeaks when I settle into it. The white noise machine masks the sound, and I make a mental note to tighten the screws after the baby wakes. I really should use this opportunity to pump because we don’t have any breast milk in the freezer, and what if I’m in the hospital for appendicitis next week. The diaper pail is overflowing again, but I really should be using cloth diapers anyway because I hope my daughter never wakes up to a world where all the trees have died. I can hardly taste the French vanilla creamer I’d added to my cup. A mother’s morning coffee is always bitter no matter how much cream and sugar you add.