Morning Has Broken

The new school year is looming and we are all attempting to get back into the swing of things by getting up at the crack of dawn with Husband.
"I'd rather you didn't get up with me if you're going to look like that," he says, as I scowl my way down to the kitchen in a moth-eaten dressing gown acquired some years back from a French spa.
I cannot retaliate as I am incapable of much beyond squinting and the occasional grunt until I've had at least a pint of coffee.
Small Boy is the antithesis of me. He bounces in and does his Morning Dance while breezily informing me, "I've been up since six coz you said you'd be up early. You weren't, you know. Can I have something nice for breakfast?"
I peer at him and grunt, "Only if it doesn't involve cooking anything."
"Does a full English involve cooking anything?" he asks, anxiously. "Coz that's what I want."
Husband smirks and leaves me to it, giving the dog an affectionate pat on the way out.
I roll my eyes. "I think you'll find that the name 'full English' kind of gives away how much cooking is involved."
Small Boy's brow is becoming increasingly furrowed. "What?"
I down my coffee in one and remind myself I'll be missing my son in a day or two when all I'll have for company is a reproachful dog and two hissing cats. Oh, and the chickens, who will probably have escaped to wreak havoc among the beetroot and spinach beds.
"OK, well, I haven't really got enough stuff to do a full English--"
"Yes you have!" Small Boy returns from the fridge, triumphant. "Look! Three rashers of bacon and three eggs! I'll do it!"
I must be semi-catatonic as I agree he can take charge. All too soon we have a river of egg white running over the stove and on to the floor.
"Look! A slug!" Small Boy announces gleefully.
"No, it's egg white," I mutter, on my hands and knees, wiping up gloop.
"No, no, it's really a real live slug!" he shouts, clapping his hands.
I peer at the slime and realise, yes, it is a real live slug.
Twenty minutes later, Small Boy is tucking into bacon, eggs, white bread and hot chocolate and chattering away about the things small boys chatter away about. I am staring into the middle distance and chewing on dry muesli as he's used up all the milk.
"Uh." Daughter has materialised. "Cn'I 'ave somefin to eat?"
Small Boy produces the last rasher of bacon and a bit of bread and continues wittering. Daughter and Mother stare into middle distance, chewing in unison, lost in separate but possibly not entirely unrelated thoughts. Never has the expression "like mother, like daughter" been so true.
Poor girl.