I'm sitting at my kitchen table working, a slight breeze blowing in the back door. Babies are napping. Husband is at his own computer. Kids are watching some piece-of-crap cartoon on TV in the basement. The quiet is tremendously satisfying.
Up the stairs comes my 7-year-old son, panting, near tears and in a panic.
"Did you really say that if I tooted one more time, I'd have to go to my room for ten hours?!" [His voice cracking with palpable anxiety.]
"Did you tell me if I tooted one more time, I'd have to go to my room for ten hours?!"
"Did your sister tell you that?"
"YES?!" [Voice still registering whiny panic.]