Silence (how about we pick ONE?).

Daddy?
my daughter said.
I want to do two things for my birthday.

Okay.
I said.
What are they?

The first,
she said.
Is go to Powell's Books.

Okay.
I said.
That's doable. What's the second?

Six-year old girl reading book outside on couch.

The second thing,
she said.
Is I want to go to Disneyland.

Oh.
I said, but was unable to respond as her brother broke in:

Yeah,
he exclaimed.
We could go to Disneyland and then to Africa!

Okay,
I said.
We might need to do a bit of prioritizing here first.

Why?
They said.

I don't know.
I said, and contemplated emptying out my IRA, which would give our accountant a good chuckle.

Aloud, I suggested some additional mandatory chores they could volunteer for, while we were waiting for celebratory activities to commence:

And you,
I said, pointing at the shorter one,
you can gather all the dirty clothes together upstairs.

But Daddy,
he said, his short solemn face announcing his integrity,
I’m not allowed to help with laundry! Mama said so!

Who made Mama the boss?
I growled.
Well, I’m changing my mind because you’ll probably just get the dirty clothes dirtier. So go do something more age appropriate for a fresh four-year old, like cleaning the gutters, or cutting some of those limbs high up in the tall trees. Chainsaw’s in the garage somewhere. And clean that while you’re at it.

But Daddy -
he started in with another whiny reason,
Mama said -

Silence!
I thundered with great patience.
Silence! And do your chores quickly so we can celebrate my birthday this week.

It’s not your birthday!
they chorused.
Silence! I screamed.

Oh, the silence of our patient lives. The silence.

——