My opening syllables sound like an unhatched breakfast, my ending syllable was once an old English wooden drinking mug, and together we create the creamy, nutmeg-dusted beverage poured for winter toasts. What holiday drink am I?

I stand completely still, yet I make everyone around me start shouting numbers backward. What am I?

I am spoken with great determination on January first, but whispered with regret by the end of the month. What am I?

I am assigned inside a school building, but my home is in your house. Loved by no student, my ultimate goal is to be returned to the teacher. What am I?

I possess a spine but have no ribs, I boast hundreds of leaves without bearing a single branch, and students carry me back to school to read for class. What am I?

I am the exact moment when yesterday becomes tomorrow, yet I vanish the very second I arrive. What am I?

I am packed with wealth, yet I am entirely broke. I travel across the world, but I never leave my corner. What am I?