The Witching Hour
It’s 5:30. Dinner is going to be late.
Little Miss is crawling around the apartment, crying, looking for her dinner, which, I’m sorry, isn’t going to be ready until I can get everything on the table and take a minute to sit down. “Hey Honey! You’re so cute! You’re going to be just fine! You’re going to be okay!” I tell her. The brightness of my voice does nothing to soothe her frazzled nerves – or mine.
The middle child is whining from the bathroom about how he needs help. Because he just wet his pants.
Of course he did. He always wets his pants the day after I do the laundry. Like clockwork.
While I help him find some new clothes, the oil I have heating in the skillet starts smoking. The smoke detector beeps obnoxiously. I grab a chair to stand on so I can take it off the wall. The smoke hangs visibly in the apartment. It’s only 67 degrees inside and the heat has been off – broken – most of the day. But I’ve got to get the smoke out. I crack the window.
Meanwhile, the eldest child is lying lethargically on the couch, his rising temperature will be undiscovered for another hour. For the moment, his silence feels like a blessing.
It’s 5:30 and dinner is going to be late.