Q is for Quiet, Please.

The weather has been cold and wet.

The children haven't been outside at school for recess for ages.

And by the time the yellow bus drops them off and snacks are found and devoured and homework at least glanced at, it's dark.

So, they're rambunctious. They play chase in the house, their feet pounding on the floor like cannibal drumbeats to my saying, Stop. Stop. Okay, Time Out, both of you. Over and over again.

If they're not running and throwing balls and GoGos in my house--strictly verboten among the glass tables and sundry breakable objects--they're playing board games and arguing over the rules. The Girl is a tattletale. Mom, he took extra money from the bank. Mom, he moved twice. Mom, he took my cards.

I repeat, over and over again, If you don't like how he plays, don't play with him.

When they're not running and playing board games, they're doing homework and annoying each other in the process. The Girl prefers to work with music; the Boy prefers to work in silence. I don't care. We all prefer to work in the dining room and living room. If the Girl isn't humming with her brother shouting at her to stop, he's tapping a TechDeck or a pencil on the table with her shouting at him to stop. And I'm shouting at both of them to stop, over and over again.

Until bedtime. They snuggle beneath layers of blankets and quilts to stay warm in the still-unheated house. And I curl up between red-ticking-striped flannel sheets with my book while the Husband goes to the back to play Metroid for a few minutes. It's Quiet.

Finally, Quiet.