Oh, morning. That sacred, hallowed time before the world, and indeed, before the humans of the house decide to collectively assault my ears. In our humble abode, there’s a hard and fast rule, carved into the very stone of our hearth: Thou Shalt Not Disturb Connie Before 7 AM. Unless, of course, the house is on fire or a tidal wave has just swept through the garden. These are, as you can imagine, rare occurrences.

Sleep ghosted me a while ago. By 6 AM, I’m on my second cup of coffee, and it’s glorious. The silence, thick and comforting, is punctuated only by the gentle hum of the fridge. This time of year, the sky is just wondrous in colour, and catching the sunrise is an awesome compensation for waking naturally early.In fact, this morning’s view was particularly spectacular if you look, the sun rising over the fields while the moon still hung in the pre-dawn sky.

My eldest foster son, a six-foot-four gentle giant, is currently doing a passable impression of a contented lump on the sofa, having clearly opted for an impromptu lounge-based slumber party last night after arriving home from uni. He’s back for a breather from Freshers’ Week (too many people-y activities, too few spoons), and yesterday’s 4 PM arrival clearly led to a late ‘lights out’ on the settee. All is right with the world.

Then, the clock strikes 6:20 AM.

His eyes, those beautiful, mischievous eyes, flutter open. And just like that, the quiet, the peace, the blissful pre-7 AM sanctuary, shatters into a million enthusiastic shards. “Connie, guess what? I saw this thing! And then, do you know about that other thing? And seriously, have you ever thought about the implications of the third thing?”—it’s a verbal avalanche, a non-stop monologue of magnificent proportions. I swear, the boy inhales words and exhales entire encyclopaedias without a single pause for breath.

By 7 AM, the youngest, a glorious whirlwind of energy himself, descends the stairs. School is too much of a faff with buses on a morning, so he’s ready to be dropped off. And just like that, my singular auditory assault becomes a full-blown stereo experience. My two borrowed boys are two peas in a pod as far as ears and neurospicy goes, and they’re now competing for the ‘Motormouth of the Year’ award, bouncing off each other, each vying for airtime, each with an urgent, absolutely vital piece of information to impart.

The clock on the wall ticks agonisingly slow. It’s only 7 AM, and we don’t need to leave for school until 7:45. That’s 45 minutes of glorious, uninterrupted “people-y” chaos, and I can assure you, I haven’t had enough coffee for this. I find myself silently praying for the hands on the clock to speed up, just a little.

The drive home from the school drop-off, I must confess, was nothing short of heavenly. Just me, the radio, and the glorious, uninterrupted hum of the engine. Even though I might moan a little about the lack of peace this morning, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love them both dearly, and I wouldn’t trade their brilliant, chaotic way of being for all the quiet cuppas in the world. As for 7 AM? Well, it seems to be less of a time marker and more of a starting pistol in this house. Who knows what tomorrow’s dawn will bring – probably more fascinating monologues and the desperate search for an even bigger coffee mug.