The Witching Hour

The Witching Hour

Around here “the witching hour” rears it’s ugly head a few hours before midnight. I’m talking straight-up demons, ghosts, chatty fathers, exhausted mothers and cranky toddlers. This is when well-crafted melt downs (of both the child and adult variety) occur.

This is when mothers scream about washing the face, brushing the hair and putting on the diaper. This is when the running of the bulls, I mean toothbrushes occurs, where kids avoid brushing their teeth by free range running over furniture and under beds while parents chase them around the house hoping to tackle them and squeeze some toothpaste into their tiny, protesting mouths. These are the nights when the toddler is throwing the last, most momentous, tantrum of the day, the father is droning on and on and on about one of his clients at work and the mother wants to pop the cork on a bottle of wine and drain it’s entire contents as if she is starring in a good old fashioned soda commercial. Where people beg for silence and the reduction of bright lights, beg for the hugging to end and pray on their hands and knees for the non stop talking to be over. Yes, this is The Witching Hour.

It doesn’t occur every night, but when there is a full moon aligned with staying up too late and eating too much sugar and 12 straight hours of utter toddler madness it is bound to show it’s disturbing, ugly face. It is worse than Halloween because there are no costumes and worse than a scary movie because it is real…so very, very real.

This is why after reading the book, The Exorcist, and seeing the movie, The Exorcist, and watching my toddler perform her two year old tantrum-ing I am convinced that Linda Blair was merely channeling her inner toddler for the part. No devil demon could trump a two year old in the psychotic child department. Hands down, the toddler wins:


I am certain that, if it were biologically possible, Tiny-Small would spin her head all the way around every time I refused to give her a cookie, or ice cream, or a piece of cake for breakfast. She already has the spitting, the hitting and the whole barfing green pea soup up down.

It’s too bad we weren’t aware of any casting calls because I am sure Tiny-Small could have played the part of Reagan MacNeil in the theater production of The Exorcist. She could have been directed by John Doyle and received enormous applause from theater patrons visiting the Geffen Playhouse. If only we lived in L.A. or at least in CA. I guess we’ll have to wait for a local production to be developed or maybe, just maybe, she can star in Annie. Someday. When she gets her charm back. If that ever happens.

She just needs to practice her singing a little more and maybe she needs to learn to control the whole I have a toddler demon trapped in my body thing. I have faith in her. The terrible two’s can’t last forever. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway every time she throws her food on the floor, screams, kicks, rolls around on the floor, cries, yells, hits me, screams (again)…

Seriously, I’m a little scared I’m not going to make it. I really hope we don’t end up on a show like The Haunting and have to hire a Catholic priest to come out and do an exorcism on the two of us. I just hope there is a two-for-one kind of discount or something because exorcism looks expensive. Also, I hope we’re not on The Haunting because their reenactments aren’t exactly believable. Every other show takes place in the exact same house with walls painted a slightly different color.  I don’t even know if that show is still on and I am way too lazy, tired, outraged, drunk on life to google it right now. I just hope Tiny-Small outgrows the drama and anger only a two-year-old deprived of breakfast cake can muster. Otherwise, I am totally going to be the married with children version of the runaway bride. I’ll go missing and be found on a bus headed to Idaho. Why Idaho? It’s the perfect relocation state. Nobody ever talks about moving to Idaho. Plus, the toddlers there are supposed to be sweet, and kind, and potato loving. At least, that’s the rumor I heard.

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