First porridge morning of the Autumn. Trying to move breakfast forward little by little so that our early start tomorrow doesn't feel like such a rude awakening.
My boys are slow to eat, first thing. Like me, they would rather wait until a more civilized hour before they eat breakfast - at 7am, food seems more of a duty than a pleasure. But I know they will be starving by morning break if I don't make them have some. And they are both fans of the occasional bowl of porridge. We sit, the three of us, around the kitchen table. They are surprisingly chatty - tales of dreams of the previous night, plans for the day, sibling jokes and teasing. And I know that tomorrow, I will be trying to relax and enjoy their company without glancing at the marching hands of the clock, or anticipating the next cup of coffee.
You know the cup I mean, don't you? The one you drink on returning from the traffic and mayhem of the school run, when the house is silent and the luxury of the hours until pick-up stretch ahead with infinite promise.
I must make plans, or I fear I will spend tomorrow sitting at the kitchen table just listening to the silence.