They call it the witching hour. Well I’d like to expelliarmus the power right out of 5 p.m. and disarm its wand. This witch has gots to go.
It really isn’t fair, is it? We spend all day fighting the good fight, wiping butts and taking names, and then right at the finish line, right when we should be patting ourselves on the back for a job well done, all heckballs break loose, everyone needs us at once, and we somehow manage to burn spaghetti. How do you burn spaghetti? The witching hour, that’s how.
I can be Calm Mom all day long, roll with the proverbial punches, and let the chaos wash over me, but by 5pm, everything comes to a head, like a giant oozing pimple. After hours of holding it together like a boss, like a Mom Boss, someone spills their milk, another refuses to clean up the craft bin they exploded all over the kitchen table, someone else will not quit shout-singing Taylor Swift, and I burst forth and spew. (This is a disgusting image. I wish I could think of lovelier ways to describe my rage monster besides spewing oozy pimples, but we are in full-on adolescence over here so this is where I am.)
Screw Vegas. Can we all just agree that what happens at 5 p.m., stays at 5 p.m.? It’s too much. I’ve pinpointed these reasons for the 5 p.m. vortex of pain: