The Witching Hour

I was going to title this post with a different word, but changed my mind because I didn't want to offend any of my readers. Not those who assure me it's OK to say the A word in a Christmas card, of course. But readers like my grandma, who might not appreciate the occasional curse word. And I'm pretty sure I can't bust out a 'for shizzle' without causing mass confusion.

But I digress. Insert any word you like.

Anyone who is a parent knows what 'The Witching Hour' is. No, not midnight. The Witching Hour strikes around 5PM, when dinner needs to be cooked, Mommy has been with the kiddos all day long and really needs a break, and when Daddy is due home from work soon and would really like to relax for a bit with a nice cold beer.

During said hour, the minutes creep by while I repeatedly look at the clock and out the door for John to come home. That's because as soon as John walks in the door, I'm low man on the totem pole and Johnny doesn't want a thing to do with me. So I can finish dinner with only one cranky child to manage.

During the witching hour, it doesn't matter how sunny and pleasant Johnny has been all day, what video I put in for him to watch, or what cool thing I give him to play with (last night it was the lint roller and my couch cushions have never looked better). He clings to my leg. He rejects his dinner. He tries to climb on the counters or maul the cat, and plays target practice with his sister's head. He gets into stuff he never bothers and makes the biggest messes possible. Last night's dinner was Shrimp and Spinach Risotto, and I really couldn't step away from the stove too much or risk ruining dinner. It turned out great, by the way. Johnny pulled all of Maureen's bottle supplies out of the cabinet and unrolled the roll of bottle liners. In ten seconds flat. If he were an X-Men, his name would be Destructo.

At any other time of day, Maureen is happy to spend some time in her bouncy seat or on the floor under her baby gym (but not in the swing). During the witching hour, she wants to be held. Ever tried to peel potatoes with twelve plus pounds of baby strapped to your chest? She has target practice too. Last week, while strapped to my chest, she managed to spit up right down my shirt. Slimy!

Johnny has another cold and was up a lot last night, so he's actually sleeping right now. I should take the chance to start dinner in peace...