It was supposed to be a peaceful day.
That was the promise.
A simple excursion to the seaside—a little rest and relaxation for the House of the Hearth. The sky was clear, the ocean shimmered, and the waves sang lullabies as they gently lapped against the sand. For once, even Mother Goose had allowed herself to believe this day would be calm.
She had packed meticulously: towels, sunscreen, sandwiches, a small grill, and enough juice boxes to hydrate a small army. Father Hearth had brought only one item—a large pitcher of iced tea with citrus slices gently floating inside it, which he now sipped beneath the shade of a magically conjured parasol, utterly serene.
The children, of course, had other plans.
Mother Goose's first warning came when she saw them marching down the dunes in an organized column, dragging a makeshift wagon behind them. Atop it sat none other than King Croak, the comically tiny desert frog they had declared their monarch. He wore a doll's crown slightly askew on his head, and his royal cape—still fashioned from one of Mother Goose's finest red handkerchiefs—flapped proudly in the sea breeze.
He squeaked with unmistakable purpose.
"SQUEEEEK!"
Theo, ever loyal and dressed in aluminum-foil armor, stepped forward and proclaimed, "By decree of His Amphibious Majesty King Croak the First, we declare this beach… ours!"
Mother Goose, who was trying to lay out skewers of fish over the grill, froze. One eye twitched.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The beach!" Theo shouted triumphantly. "The king demands conquest!"
"Squeek-squeeek!"
The children erupted into cheers. Small flags were planted into the sand. Shovels were raised like swords. A bucket tower was hastily constructed to serve as a castle.
Then came the seagulls.
At first, it was only one. It landed near the food table and said, with impeccable timing:
"Mine?"
It was joined by another.
"Mine?"
Then three more.
"Mine? Mine. Mine!"
The children stared at the birds.
The birds stared back.
Tension thickened.
And then King Croak let out a single, furious squeak—"SQUUEEEEEK!"—and all chaos broke loose.
Suddenly, children were charging the beach, wielding plastic swords and umbrellas. Seagulls squawked and took flight in frantic circles. A flying sandal narrowly missed someone's head. Buckets became helmets. Sandcastles became forts. Someone had mounted the frog on a paper plate and was carrying him like a sacred standard-bearer through the frontlines of battle.
"Surrender, foul sky rats!" shouted one of the children.
"MINE!" shrieked a gull, dive-bombing a juice box.
All the while, Father Hearth reclined in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, sipping his iced tea with the unshakable calm of a man watching a distant storm from the comfort of a stone cottage.
"This," he said softly to himself, "is rather entertaining."
Mother Goose, on the other hand, stood over the grill, tongs in hand, her apron stained with marinade and stress. Her smile was paper-thin. Her eyes twitched violently.
A fish sizzled.
A sausage popped.
A gull snatched a sausage.
A child screamed.
"THEY'VE BREACHED THE SAUSAGE WALL!"
"THE SKY DEMONS HAVE WINGS OF VENGEANCE!"
"BRING ME THE PIECE OF CORAL THAT LOOKS LIKE A DAGGER!"
Mother Goose flipped a skewer, took a long breath through her nose, and muttered:
"I swear, one more squeak, and I will turn that frog into soup."
King Croak squeaked again—this time triumphantly.
She screamed internally.
Meanwhile, the children had begun using seaweed as whips, forming an alliance with a crab named "General Snips," and one of the toddlers had tied a feather to their head and declared themselves "The Seagull Whisperer"—though results were inconclusive at best.
At last, as the sun began to lower in the sky and the seagulls grew tired of the resistance (or perhaps bored), the battle came to an end.
Both sides retreated—children to their towels, seagulls to the rocks, and King Croak to a throne made of shells and half a sandwich. The royal frog squeaked once more, clearly pleased with the victory.
Mother Goose collapsed beside Father Hearth on the blanket, smelling faintly of grilled mackerel and frustration.
"Never," she breathed, "never again."
Father Hearth calmly offered her a glass of iced tea.
"It could have been worse," he said.
She gave him a look that could melt butter.
"One of them just tried to marry the crab, Hearth."
He took another sip. "At least it wasn't the frog this time."
She groaned and buried her face in her hands.
And the House of the Hearth, even by the sea, remained exactly as it always was—loud, impossible, ridiculous… and deeply, impossibly beloved.