The hours of 5pm until 8pm are what I call The Dark Hours. I only call them that in my head, though. I would be kind-of a creeper mom if I was like, “We’re not having dinner quite yet, honey. I’ll begin preparing food during… .THE DARK HOURS!!!!” Obviously, I would be dressed as a Sith Lord while saying this. I know that looks like a Star Wars reference, but it’s not. It’s actually a reference from The Office, which is literally the only way I know about Sith Lords.
Every night, from 5-8pm, I am a little, shall we say, moody. Which is almost like saying Hitler was a bit moody. Except instead of trying to kill off an entire race of people, it’s more like my angry faces are trying to exterminate all my happy faces. This is exactly how I would explain the Holocaust to a six year old.
I started thinking about The Dark Hours tonight because today was special. Today was a special all-day edition of The Dark Hours. It was The Dark Day, basically… an entire day in which everything felt all wrong, with no conceivable reason why. On days like this, I usually just enjoy some delicious rocky road, throw old ladies dirty looks for standing too close to me in the supermarket, and chalk it up to hormones. I feel good about blaming hormones because:
a) no one blames anything on the rain anymore, and
b) I’m no doctor, but hormones seem to be the culprit behind probably 94% of my crazy. It certainly wasn’t logic that gave me the green light to panic when Ryan ate down my cream cheese supply by one tablespoon last time I was pregnant.
I always picture my lady hormones like one of those big water wheel things.
Because of all the churning. You know? I’m not sure about this particular water wheel, though. I don’t feel like my lady hormone water wheel would be powered by some bored old man with a pathetic little garden hose. If someone were to provide my wheel with power, it would definitely be someone more like this:
He-Man would probably do it, right? The power of Grayskull, plus that big tiger thing, would get the job done much better than bored hose man.
I hate days like this not just because of how frustrating it feels to be in a mysterious bad mood, but also because I end up snapping at little B.T. for things I am normally much more zen about. Like – one thing he’s been doing lately is deciding that instead of asking for help when he’s frustrated he’ll just go, “EEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEHHHHHH!!!!” It’s like Alvin and the Chipmunks covering a Justin Bieber song – multiple layers of obnoxiously high-pitched noises. I am supposed to respond by rushing over and doing something like reattaching the leg of a plastic horse who has suffered a sudden amputation.
On a normal day, I inform B.T., just like I would to the Biebs, that Mommy can’t understand whiny voices and I need to hear his big boy words. On a Dark Day, however, I do something kinda psycho like grab horsey off the table and hiss, “NO. MORE. HORSIES.” Then I put horsey up on a high shelf, where B.T. can still see it but can’t reach it. I leave horsey’s severed leg with B.T., though.
This obviously makes B.T. even more upset and I feel terrible for totally losing it at my son when he’s 2 years old and is no way going to make it through his entire childhood without whining. Then I think to myself, “Why can’t I stir some chicken for FIVE DAMN MINUTES without horsey’s leg snapping off?” Justice! Where it at?
Anyone else out there have days where they just can’t snap out of it? Sometimes I think it might be easier to be a dude, but then I remember that dudes have penises. I think I’d rather deal with lady crazy every day of my life rather than try to walk around with one of those things.
Update: I changed my Dark Hours from 5-7 to 5-8. It pleases me to realize I’m actually pretty cranky for three hours every day instead of just two.