The Witching Hour Cometh

Six o'clock and it's all smiles. Baby plays in her gym, blissfully full on mom's life-sustaining milk, grasping at the bugs with cellophane wings, the multi-textured ball, the stuffed elephant just out of reach. A nap is coming. All day she cycles--feed, play, sleep, change, repeat. It's pleasantly predictable, a healthy routine for her and dad both. By six-thirty she is calming, enough so that dad can begin dinner. He cuts the onions, minces the garlic, chops the vegetables. From across the room he can see baby's eyes getting heavy. Her energy is waning. Her once active arms drooping. The excited kicks and squirming stop. Dad can relax. "It's break time boss." He grabs a beer, turns on the news, and begins sauteing the onion and garlic.

Every evening brings hope. Maybe tonight will be it. Maybe the curse of wretched fits and inconsolable wails of infant insolence will cease. She will graduate to a more mature form of miniature mortal. The clock strikes seven and baby's eyes are fluttering, barely open now. Dad sips his beer and lets his focus fall to dinner and Robert Seigel.

Then, turning to add the quartered zucchini to the fragrant pan of sizzling roots it happens. Baby's pacifier hits the floor and with it dad's hopes of dinner time sanity. Baby's head thrashes violently. Her mouth pouts as the lack of sucking motion rouses her from her near-slumber. Dad puts his half-full beverage on the counter and stirs the vegetables hastily, knowing time is short. He wishes he had not been so naive. Why would tonight have been different? How can he make such a rookie mistake night after night? Perhaps it is the regularity of the rest of the day. From sun-up to early evening the cycle seems too concrete to vary. But it does and dinner must stop.

Dad turns off the stove as baby becomes possessed by something from the psychological netherworld--the infant equivalent of psychosis. Her eyes still watery with fatigue, she looks up helplessly at dad wishing as badly as he does that she could maintain control. But the witching hour has cometh. There's no remedy, no amount of feeding, or soothing, or shushing that will cure it. There is no solving the problem or providing for a need, there is only endurance of spirit. Dad wrestles the wriggling bewitched babe to her car seat and the car seat to the stroller. He glances sadly at the half-cooked meal strewn across the counter top and the wounded soldier standing guard. It will be eight before he gets back. Fresh air and vibration in the outdoors are all that take the edge off the frantic flailing. If nothing else the cries for control dissipate in the cool evening air that provides some relief for dad. If only he had grabbed a snack, some sustenance to aide in maintaining his mental acuity and patience. But alas, it has begun. Deep breaths, fast walking, perseverance. It will end, eventually. And tomorrow will bring new hope. The witch will leave her and dad's smiling cooing child will return. They will play and sing and bond, tomorrow. But for now...for now...he waits.