December 1st: Solemn- Sparky Dorian.
"Boys!"
Charlotte Watson leapt out of the way of a ball of boy, closely pursued by one of the many Watson bulldogs.
"Boys!" Two heads popped up expectantly. Charlotte tried very hard not to smile at how John's collar was askew and Hamish's hair was mussed in the back.
"I've told you not to wrestle in the parlor. You can play outside."
"It's too cold," John pled. "Wrestling's no fun in coats, mother."
Charlotte sighed. Both boys had inherited their father's warm brown eyes and could imitate his pleading look perfectly. Especially John, who was only seven. Hamish was eleven now, and his limbs were starting to gain the gangly quality of adolescence.
"Not the parlor," she repeated. "The nursery's fine. Oh, Gladstone, don't—" She pried the dog's jaws off Hamish's shoe. Gladstone whined petulantly.
"Come on, Gladstone," John sang out, slipping out of his brother's arms. "I'll race you there, Hamish!"
Hamish snorted. "Yeah, right. Eat my dust, small fry."
They took off, bumping into walls and skidding on the Persian rug. Charlotte couldn't resist laughing. The boys were back from school for Christmas, and goodness knew she missed them during the school year—despite how easy it was to keep the house clean, despite the lack of holes she had to mend. Some days she entertained having more babies just to keep from missing her little boys.
James came in when she was starting dinner, dusting off snow. "Do the boys have Gladstone?" he asked. "I came up short counting the pups."
"Of course, dear. When don't they?" She sighed a laugh. "They make a terrible mess but without them the house is so solemn."
"The only place they could use more solemnity is church," James agreed darkly.
Charlotte cast her eyes to the fluffy snow clouds in the sky before yelling, "Boys! I MADE PUDDING!"
She heard frenzied shouts and the pitter patter of running feet. "Be ready to dodge, darling," she said to her husband. "Nothing stands between the boys and pudding."