There's lots of chatting going on around our apartment these days. LOTS of chatting. My son in particular has taken to announcing his every thought. As in, “I’m only wearing one sock. My hair looks weird today. I wish I had a hamster.” And so on.

Things would be quieter if we spoke Swedish. If we spoke Swedish, my kids would be in Swedish schools, bestowing their chattiness upon other kids who speak Swedish. But, sadly, we know just a few words of Swedish, and we only know for sure how to spell one of them. So, the kids are home, and we are homeschooling. The theme for this autumn, it turns out, is “An Abundance of Quality Time.”

Not since my children were little have I spent this much time alone with them. By “with them,” I mean “WITH THEM.” They are never more than a few feet away. We are strangers in a strange land together. (And by “together,” I mean “TOGETHER.")

When they were little, my constant presence meant they had someone to fetch toys from high shelves. But, in the new age of Togetherness, they just want to talk. Talk, talk, talk. I’m not their first choice for a listener, but I do the best I can.

“Which would you use?” my son will ask, following me from room to room. “Avada Kedavra or Expelliarmus? I mean, if you were battling Voldemort.”

Luckily, I know my way around Hogwarts, so I’ll open my mouth to answer. And I would remind him that Avada Kedavra is an Unforgivable Curse. Except that he doesn’t wait for my response.

“I would use Avada Kedavra,” he’ll continue, “because it’s a jet of green light, and I have green eyes. And if you use Expelliarmus…”

It goes on and on.

I know kids who would duel with him for hours and make all the appropriate sound effects. Unfortunately, those kids are in Ann Arbor. So, my son is stuck with me — a mom whose sound effects all sound the same. Pew, pew! (That’s shooting.) Pew, pew! (That’s casting a spell.) Pew, pew! (That’s a light saber.)

When I tuck him in at night, he gives me a patient smile. I know he’s thinking, “Mother, Mother. Why can’t you be 8? And a boy? And a wizard? And slightly more flexible regarding the Unforgivable Curses?”

Similarly, my daughter would probably prefer the company of another 12-year-old. But, at this point in our sabbatical, I think she’d settle for anyone who didn’t nag about her overuse of the word “like.”

“It’s like, oh my gosh,” she’ll say. “It’s like, I can’t believe it.”

“Is it LIKE you can’t believe it?” I’ll ask. “Or, can you actually not believe it?”

She spends so much time casting her eyes toward the ceiling, I’m afraid they’ll get stuck that way.

On the other hand, we were playing cards the other day, and when I stood up to get more snacks, I said, “BRB.” (That’s Text for “be right back.”) I glanced over to see whether she was horrified, but she was nodding her approval. (Feeling cocky, I threw in an “LOL.” Her eyes rolled heavenward once more.)

When it’s the three of us all together (which is hours every day) the conversation is a mash-up of tween-, mom-, and kid-speak.

Daughter: “It’s like, oh my gosh? I saw a pair of pants on Project Runway? That cost a thousand dollars?”

Me: “Heavens! What was so great about them?”

Son: “Duh! Probably pockets! Lots and lots of pockets! One for rocks, one for shells, one for your magic wand ...”

And on and on.

That particular exchange occurred on the beach last week, on what was supposed to have been our first official day of homeschooling. The sun was so bright that we tossed the math books into a corner. We stopped at a grocery store for candy bars on our way out of town.

We’d visited this beach back in July, during the height of summer, and it was so crowded then that we’d had trouble finding a place to sit. Last week, though, the beach was deserted — concession stand boarded up, chairs stacked and put away. It was just the water and the sky and a few fat seagulls. And me. And the kids, talking.

And there I was on a playground by the sea, pushing my son and daughter on swings for the first time since they were little. And the sky was so blue that I had to close my eyes for a moment. So I listened to my children chatting, and I wished it could go on and on.

Heather Heath Chapman is living in Umeå, Sweden, with her husband and two children. You may reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.