The Witching Hour

There is an hour around dinner time where the ground crumbles beneath my feet.  It is the hour of tantrums.  It is the hour of tiredness. It is the hour of unreasonable requests. I call it the witching hour.

The witching hour has begun.

Ian, my adoring husband, usually sees me for three hours everyday.  The first hour doesn't count.  I am in bed cuddling with my baby.  If I have to get out of bed before I am ready, I get cranky.  This means he gets the girls some cereal, and I hope nobody has a crisis.  If we actually spend time together in the morning, it is most likely cranky time. I spend many, many hours throughout the day in a perfectly delightful mood.  We sing, we dance, we create, we explore.  Good times are had by all. Then Ian comes home from work.  Unfortunately, he comes home during the witching hour.  Another hour where my best self is not shining through.

The witching hour. It is the hour where I need magic to happen so I can get dinner on the table. I have also turned into a witch. I am tired, I am hungry. I am impatient. I have a little witch two year old screaming at my feet because she wants me to hold her.  I have two little witch girls who are fighting over the computer, avoiding homework, or telling me they are hungry. (Really, you are hungry?  Me, too. That is why I am making dinner). And then, often times, I have a little baby boy witch wanting me to hold him RIGHT NOW.  As though the universe has been on a timer, and the balls of insanity all drop at the exact same time.

I often wish I avoided this whole situation with better planning.  I could have put dinner in the crock-pot at 10 instead of watching last night's Dancing With the Stars.  (I fold laundry while I watch shows, so I am not totally wasting time.  Just mostly wasting time).  Or, I could have foreseen my hunger at 4:30, since it happens every day, and started cooking at 3:30.  Or, I could have done some yoga with my girls a half hour ago and centered myself so I wasn't a frantic mess.  Life is all about choices and mine lead me to this.

Scenario 1: I yell at the two big girls to go to their rooms or to go outside.  I don't want their help, it will only slow me down. Then I give the two year old a piece of cheese so I can get her away from my feet, and allow me room to move about freely in the cabin.  And I sometimes have to let the little baby cry on a blanket or in his swing until I am finished getting dinner.  For Ian, this is best case scenario.  If he comes home to this scenario, it is remotely calm by the time he arrives, and he has food.

Mom sent me outside.  Here I am. Hungry.

Scenario 2: Sometimes, I get the two year old to help me make dinner.  I bring a chair over, and she gets to spill ingredients all over the counter.  She loves it, but it makes preparing food slower, a giant mess, and the baby is still crying.

Scenario 3: Sometimes, I hold the baby and eat a bowl of cereal, and give the kids crackers and tell them to wait until their dad gets home to make them dinner.  This is ideal for the baby, but not for anyone else.

Unfortunately for Ian, he doesn't know exactly the situation he is walking to when he comes through that front door.

"Hi honey, how was your day."  He will ask, timidly.  He can see the witching hour all over my face.

"Fine. The kids are crazy." I say.  My husband looks at me warily.  Afraid to ask. He asks anyway, because he's hungry, and he needs to know.

"What's for dinner?"

"I didn't make dinner.  I've been holding the baby.  I ate cereal."  I walk out of the room, baby in arms.

"I ate cereal." At least the baby is happy.

"Ohhh...." Then he says hi to his cute little girls, who are ecstatic he has come home.  They have many things to tell him, the most important one being, they are hungry.  He rummages through the kitchen and comes up with macaroni and cheese.  He adds food coloring.  He says it is fun.

Once the witching hour is over, I always feel bad.  I should have planned ahead. I shouldn't have gagged at the green macaroni and cheese. I have great hopes to do better the next day. Great hopes. And the timer resets. Until the next witching hour.