I'd love to say that eleven days of rain in a house half the size of the one we live in -- in Wisconsin -- has drawn us closer as a family, led to more memories and laughter, renewed our appreciation for gentle pursuits, such as library cards and board games. The fact is, that quaint unity ran out on the fourth day and since then, it's just been unadulterated misery.

My husband has a problem with clutter. He'd like the little boys to clean up the wooden railroad trains that are the only thing between them and playing with a set of kitchen knives. We've played with water, oatmeal and Matchbox cars, homemade Play-Doh, braided each others' hair and polished each others' toes with alternating neon green and orange (the boys are only 3 and 5). Every few minutes, he tries to make a clean sweep of our tiny living room. The kids follow him, dumping everything out as soon as he can put it away. When I suggested he take up Nordic walking, he offered to fight me.

My newly teenage daughter explains why visiting the seashore is boring, why the mosquito-dense humidity of a Wisconsin summer is ever so preferable. I understand. She wants her friends, all of who are named some variation of Hayleigh (Kaleigh, Chaley, Bailey and Shaieighleigh). They want her, too. It doesn't matter that five of the seven are at summer camp. "If I were home, I could text them!" The fact that she doesn't have a cell phone does nothing to lighten her mood.

All my ten-year-old daughter wants is to go swimming. That's all we want, too. Yesterday, we saw some neighbors come home from the beach, encrusted with sand and rubbing their empurpled toes -- after which they held an umbrella over the outdoor grill.

Our college-age son, the only one with a real reason to be here, as he's part of a regional theater production, lies on the floor as the rain pours down the eaves. Asked what he's imagining, he says, and I think he's kidding, "Daydreaming about where to hide the bodies."

The ground is so soft that the play set is a dangerous object.

The construction across the street literally shook a cabinet loose and made us nostalgic for the excitement of a very small earthquake.

The dogs are visibly gaining weight and I don't even want to think about me.

We could all curl up for naps with good books except that even our library card quotient is exhausted for the time being.

Of course, there really is an upside to all this.

Nobody has to water the flowers.