Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Witching Hour

Today was a very busy day.

I spent the morning cleaning the hell out of my basement. Not just cleaning, I mean hauling crap by the bucket load out from the creepy cobweb-ridden, offensive smelling storage room that hides in the dark recesses of our home.

I'm sure everyone has a secret place like this in their home (although maybe not so hideous as mine). A place where you shove and toss all of the things you don't want to deal with, but maybe aren't ready to throw away yet. So today I threw it all (and then some) out. Satisfying? Of course. Purging our house of unnecessary crap is like popping the world's biggest pimple, a complete emptying of that which we do not need to perhaps make the house somewhere that someone might actually want to live, or at least visit.

So I cleaned it all out (by myself no less) and called my dad in a panic to come and haul it all away before my husband comes home and tries to paw through the pile and squirrel-nutkin the junk back into our lives. Francisco is secretly a hoarder.

So after all the hauling, cleaning, vacuuming, and scrubbing, I turned to spend a bit of quality time with my television zombie three year old. We went to the library and Dunkin Donuts, doesn't get more quality than a chocolate donut.

After picking up Nathan we headed home to embark on what I refer to as the Witching Hour. Other moms must know about this terrible time. It's the hour upon arriving home from school (especially in the cold dark winter) before dinner time. My kids immediately set into the "I'm boooorrreeedd! There's nothing to dooooooo!" before settling in to battle each other until somebody bleeds.


Pure. Mother. Torture.

When I'm tired after a long day I am powerless to prevent this inevitable hour of endless fighting, so it generally ends up with me in a threat-fueled, time out sending, power struggle until I give it up and let them watch PBS.

We somehow make it through dinner and bedtime routines before I collapse in a heap like the collapsible frink, unable to move, speak, or do anything but curl up in the fetal position, gearing up for another busy day tomorrow.

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