The Witching Hour

The Witching Hour used to refer to one of my favorite Anne Rice books. It made me fall in love with New Orleans from a distance.

Now it refers to that time between 5 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. For some reason, my three children, the ones who have been quite happy most of the day for MIL and my mom, develop some sort of split personality approximately 4 minutes after I walk in the door. And try as I may to run upstairs and change my clothes (so that my pants don't get something spilled on them and do not need to be washed - because if I have to wash them, then I have to iron them, and who has the time???), I cannot because I am bombarded with screaming, crying, children wanting to be picked up, children needing a diaper change, children who think dinner is overrated and would prefer to storm up to their room rather than sit at the table, a husband who is telling me that dinner is ready and why aren't the twins in their high chairs and why isn't the table cleaned off, and there I am wishing that the construction I sat through on my commute home was just a little bit longer...
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