It gets me up, every single time. Way more effective than a claw pricking my nostril or 10 lbs of muscle attacking my toes. I've had more than a year to learn to ignore that wake-up call.
When I finally staggered out, Firstborn was suited up in riding togs, packing his lunch bag and getting ready to head up the mountain with Mr. Bob for some serious training before the heat of the day took over. I watched the show from the kitchen window as I loaded the Keurig with dark roast.
That meant Plan B.
Plan B, aka young master Czar, was less than pleased to be singled out. While the coffee drizzled into the cup, and the machine did that charming wee groan, I enjoyed the ring-around-the-shed shenanigans. Fortunately Firstborn long ago accepted the maxim: you have to have more time than the horse.