Every night, I begin screaming on the inside around 5 o’clock. The trigger begins around 4:45. Here’s how it goes:
“Mom, I’m
hungry.”
“Mom, I
want a snack.”
“I know
you’re hungry. You just had a snack an
hour ago. I’m going to start dinner
soon.”
I begin whining on the inside. I want them to not ask me for
anything because they’ve been asking me for stuff, food, help, drinks since 7
am. I want a little bit of a
reprieve. I want help. But nobody is coming to the rescue for
another hour, at least. I begin to want
to cry.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve made it into the kitchen and am
pulling veggies, cans of beans, maybe some pasta, or leftovers out onto our
shiny counters. The whiny-dialogue
begins again, only this time they’re in the kitchen, underfoot, in the fridge,
in the cupboards, at the counter:
“Mom,
can I have some yogurt?”
“Mommy,
I’m thirsty. Can I have some hot
chocolate?”
“I’m
making dinner right now. Why don’t you
go build a train track while you wait?”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
It is not an angry “no”, for neither of my children direct rage
or fury towards me. Instead, theirs is a
response full of self-pity and disbelief.
Their whine cries, “How on Earth can you expect me to survive the next half hour while I wait
for you to prepare the bounty of food you intend to place before us on our
table?” Verbatim.
Sometimes I’m fine.
Sometimes I can tolerate everything and this common refrain rolls off me
like oil in a hot pan. I move through
the evening calm, unperturbed, amused even, that this is my daily grind.
Every once in a while, I even enjoy it and I think, “These are treasured
days.”
Other times, I’m not fine.
Those times, I feel suffocated and this refrain sticks to me like hot
iron and I’m treading, trying to keep my head above water. My heart beats fast and I take a sip of wine
and it doesn’t help. My head still feels
light. I’ve been known to walk out of
the room and suck in big gulps of air. I
want to feel the air at the bottom of my
lungs because that’s what feels best.
I want to feel my lungs full of air. And I know exactly why. Full lungs and partially full lungs are the
difference between a mediocre run and a great run. The start of a run is a battle of wills. My mind needs some clarity and my muscles
fight viciously against my method of attaining it. I hear things like, “I didn’t eat enough food”
or “I’m thirsty” or “I didn’t sleep enough” for the first few minutes. After beating through that jungle, I spend
the next few minutes trying to sync my feet and breath. I like taking 5-6 steps for every inhale and
another 5-6 steps for every exhale.
Depending on terrain, I try to maintain this rhythm. It is a song I have been fine-tuning for
three decades. Sometimes it’s more of a jazzy,
interpretive piece. I’ll know where I’m
going but have no idea how I’m going to get there. I run at an irregular pace and my breathing is
inconsistent. Those runs are usually mediocre, sometimes good. Those times, I'm struggling for rhythm, and before I know it, it's over. Other times, my run is an
opera. Those days are my favorite
days. Every step is a melody, perfect
and pure and sure. On those days, I
breathe deep and my lungs fill up, expand into deep, massively stretched bladders of
air and my back releases pent up tension
and my face relaxes and I can just keep going forever. I have been known
to smile stupidly.
At five o’clock, I try to mimic the latter. But it usually doesn’t work. I clearly need pharmaceutical intervention.
I talked about the witching hour with my neighbor one
night. I admitted how confounded I felt,
unable to maintain control of my emotions at the clock ticked towards five and
everybody begins to lose it. My
neighbor, an older woman who raised two girls alone, said simply, “Oh, when my
girls were young, I wanted to wipe the 5 off the clock.”
I took a deep breath.
I wasn’t alone. Other mothers
shared my experience and felt the same way!
I am not crazy or incompetent or an asshole parent. This experience is just part of this season
in my life.
Not long after ourconversation, I accepted an invitation
out to a Mom’s Night Out. I hadn’t been
out in a while and I freaking needed to get out bad. I asked my neighbor if she could watch the
kids, and she obliged happily. When she
arrived that night, she smiled and told me I looked nice. She took my hand, placed a $20 bill in my
palm, and said, “Have fun.”
