From my blog, Stuttering Shell:
The Witching Hour
Back in the day when my children were toddlers, the witching hour would bestow it's presence upon us on a regular basis. Daily. And, sometimes for hours at a time.
Tantrums would be thrown, patience would be tested, messes would be made, crying would ensue, headaches would come and go. As crazy as it would seem, all would be right with the world once whichever child it was settled down and got a grip on reality. The same went for mom and dad, too.
It wouldn't be right of me to say that the witching hour has completely departed from our lives because it hasn't. Of course, now my children are older and the witching hour is more like the witching day or days. Yes, that would be a plural variation of the word day. Uh, huh...D-A-Y-S. With a bossy 8 year old trying to rule the roost and a defiant 5 year old acting either as the partner in crime or the arch enemy, the witching hour has found a permanent place in our home. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, knows when the witching hour will strike. It could be first thing in the morning -- the kids haven't even brushed their teeth yet and they're already at each others' throats. Or, it could be during dinner -- one child is talking over the other. Or, it could be at bed time -- neither child wants to go to bed because they swear it is thundering & lightning outside (when it's really 35 degrees outside and lightly raining).
And, I'm not gonna lie, the kids aren't the only ones pitching fits around this household anymore. Although, Adam won't admit that he acts like a witch...rather than turning green and sprouting a pointy, black hat, he just turns green and grows big muscles. Ha!
Yeah, I snap every now and again. What's wrong with that? What mom doesn't?? I mean, the people living under this roof had better recognize just how important I am to their daily functioning. Like that saying goes, if momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy - or something like that. Yes, I have evolved into the wicked witch herself. Fortunately, tossing water on me doesn't make me go up in smoke and I'm not being crushed by a house (unless you count our crazyridiculous mortgage payment as being sorta-kinda like a house and, well, that's a different story). I have my moments, too. I'm either barking orders or breaking down because my micromanagement skills seem to fail me from time to time.
Ah, well. Once the kids are tucked into bed, the house is quiet and I have a glass of wine in my hand, all seems right with the world again and that inner witch of mine simmers down and saves her stamina for another day.