The Witching Hour

Felix had what can only be described as a teething induced psychotic break this evening, during the time period my mother refers to as the "witching hour." The exact parameters of the witching hour are a little different for every family, but in general it's the no man's land surrounding dinner and bedtime on a school night. Playtime is winding down, it's not yet bedtime, suddenly, the caregivers have a lot to do, less time than they'd like to get it all done, and the kids still haven't expended enough physical energy, despite levels of psychological fatigue that approach exhaustion. Add any extra volatile emotions, unexpected guests, miscellaneous head bonks, or a teething baby and you have a sweating, keening, rocking puddle of a mother/father/nanny/auntie/gramma/sitter/whatever on your hands. A freezie, some homeopathic teething tablets, and finally a dose of infant Tylenol, and the little man calmed down enough to fall asleep, but not before spewing all over a carpet and two upholstered chairs, tearing out a chunk of my hair that may have contained actual flesh, and biting the breast that feeds him. Hard.

Find me a mother who says she's never wanted to turn away from the horrible, ugly monster she's dealing with and just keep walking until she found herself on a sun drenched different continent populated by scantily clad manservant types who love her ample ass and thighs and I'll show you a liar.

Parenting, no matter how you do it, is the hardest job out there. It's dirty, you never get a break because your work worries follow you wherever you go, even when the kids aren't with you. No one can work under those conditions without experiencing a gut level need to either run or completely lose your shit. Most of us would choose neither, I know, but in my case the fantasy keeps me from going postal.