The children, maybe five or seven of them, are being noisy and interrupting and I can't do my writing. I am angry and slam the door to keep them out of my writing room. They pound on the door and yell and I am furious. All I want is some peace and quiet so I can write. I push things off my desk and grab a typewriter and begin to furiously type anything that comes to mind. A pretty good story gets done. I determinedly finish it, ignoring as best I can the unruly children. Now I go out into the living room. It's a mess, with furniture moved all around, stuff all over. I go out to the mailbox on the porch and get the mail. As I am looking at what came, I see maybe five vans or station wagons pull up. The kids are back home. One vehicle is for Dovre, one for Ellie and her family and so on. I am surprised there are so many. I see that the clothes I had ordered for Howard's Christmas present have come in the mail. Now I call to the kids to come into the house NOW. I am angry and demand they come. They saunter in, being insolent and rude. I slap some on the face repeatedly. I yell at them. I make them all sit on the couch and I rail into them. I say, "Things are going to change around here." I know 50% of this is my fault and 50% is their fault. I hear me thinking (for them) that if there are five of them and 50% is their total fault, then only ___% is each individual's share of the fault. I sneer and say, "Let's get on with the important stuff." One goes to the fridge in the kitchen. I lunge after him screaming, "Get back here NOW." Two little ones wander off the couch and I say, "Out. Get out and never come back." They finally leave. I feel a little sad, but determined to gain control and not be taken so advantaged of. "Things are going to be different from now on," I say and begin to lay down the rules. They continue to snipe and not pay attention.