The Witching Hour

Something happens in our household  between 4:30 and 5:00 pm.  A day that has been running as smoothly as a burbling creek can turn into a churning, splattering vat of acid.

The twins, who had been playing nicely moments before, abandon their pretend games of Bob the Builder or Land Before Time and switch to wrestling and somersaulting into each other.  Their ears short circuit and the wrestling doesn’t end until there are tears.

Despite having a snack less than an hour ago, the little one proclaims she is starving and must eat NOW! but Cheerios or crackers are not acceptable and will be fed to the dogs as she flings them from her tray. Sippy cups of water or milk are also dashed to the floor.

Meanwhile I am trying to prepare dinner.  I suppose a talented cook or even a cook that didn’t need to read the instructions on macaroni and cheese every single time would be able to boil water during this. As I dash to separate the twins, the water boils over.

The little one is crying again and she may have pooped, something she hates. And the twins have entered the tears stage of their wrestling.

Somehow the chaos gets ordered.  The little one is pleasant after a diaper change.  The noodles are a little soggy after boiling too long. The twins have finished crying as they face steaming plates of mac n cheese. (Reminding me that it is not steam.  It is water vapor.  This is what happens when their father is an engineer and concerned about scientific accuracy.) My husband arrives home and wonders why I look shell-shocked.

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