No matter how wonderful of a day I’ve had with the kids, how many hours we’ve spent outside at the playground or digging for worms in the yard or reading endless books or baking cupcakes or or playing with play-doh or brainstorming on how to cure cancer or achieve world peace, there is a point every day where I feel like a total and utter failure of a mother.
It’s called five o’clock and it blows.
Without fail, everyday around five o’clock, I can be found banging my head against the wall and moaning, “why me?” I get on Twitter or Facebook to whine about my out of control offspring. I question just what I have done to deserve such raging lunatics as children. I’ve been known to lock myself in the bathroom and it’s a marvel I’m not completely certifiably insane. Everyday, I wonder what I have done wrong and who the hell these creatures are.
Like magic, my previously well- behaved, sweet and kind children will suddenly transform into wild animals. They’ll decide to “play boxing” and punch and push each other, ignoring my warnings of upcoming I-told-you-so’s. They’ll do laps around the first floor, feed their dinners to the dog and talk back to me. They’ll climb on furniture, pretending to be superhero’s and scream at the top of their lungs. They’ll push my every button and relish in doing so.
And, then, just when I can’t possibly take anymore, they will tire out and become my children again. The human children who listen and cuddle and behave and don’t sport horns and fangs. This transformation will, of course, occur just in time for Jeff to waltz through the door and wonder why I look like hell as the children happily run to him. Just in time for me to kiss them good night and crawl into bed, knowing it will all happen again tomorrow.
At five o’clock.