Five O’Clock

I hate five o’clock. It is the absolute worst part of my day, every day. I can remember when that very same hour was a time for celebration, a time to pack up at the end of a long hard day of work and head home to relax, or go out with a few friends for some drinks to let off steam, or go get dressed up for a romantic date night. Not any more. Five o’clock in my house means it’s time to make dinner. And I actually enjoy cooking, that isn’t the problem. Well, I guess it IS the problem, but it’s not that I dislike cooking.

At five o’clock Nate is at his worst. He’s tired from a long day at school and a long afternoon playing and lately with all the behavior issues by five he’s already trampled my last nerve. Five o’clock is when the whining begins and the complaining peaks and it’s also the hour when he really starts needling his brother.

At five o’clock Oliver is tired from alternating between playing with Nate and fending off Nate all afternoon. He’s starving too. Even though he ate a snack that resembled a feast only an hour ago. And as soon as I enter the kitchen he follows me and begins to scream. Full out, volume 10 screams. He hovers at my ankles like a dog begging for food scraps. I try not to trip on him as I gather the pots and pans. I try not to shut his little fingers in the fridge door as I assemble my ingredients. And a try not to begin screaming myself even as my ears start to bleed from the deafening howling at my feet.

I fill a sippy cup with milk and hand it to the banshee. It is accepted and the din temporarily subsides. I take this moment to sneak a look at the recipe and begin to chop and wash veggies. Nate takes this moment to shout at me from the other room with a pointless question that really has no answer. “Mom, what if I was Mario and I jumped off the ceiling and flew through space and banged my head on the garbage can?” This is followed by insane giggling. I’m not really listening, the water is boiling and I’m measuring the rice. “MOM, I’m gonna go flush myself down the toilet!” Again, I decide that in an effort not to encourage this base humor I will not offer a response. “MOM! What if I went to . . .” the sentence continues but cannot be heard as the banshee has lost interest in the milk an resumes his auditory assault. But this doesn’t stop Nate. It’s crucially important that he illicit some response from me even though I have made it clear countless times that I do not enjoy this humor and choose not to respond when he starts down this path. He tries in vain to scream louder than his brother and my head begins to pulse.

I can literally feel my blood pressure rising, the tension invades every muscle in my body and I carelessly trip over my unwanted foot accessory on my way to the pantry. Now the screaming turns to howls and I must stop cooking to comfort the uninjured but very offended baby. Nate takes this opportunity to yell at me about how I’m only paying attention to Oliver and not him. I explain that I’m not paying attention to either of them as I am attempting to cook something that we can all eat in a little while. And besides, I do not enjoy having him yell at me from another room about nonsense. I have told him a million times to come into the room to have a conversation with me, not to yell from across the house. Now would he PLEASE go find something to do while I cook. He sulks off. When he is gone I grab a pretzel to pacify Oliver so I may resume my job.

For a few moments there is silence and I am able to dice the chicken. And then I realize that I forgot to set the timer for the rice and I stand staring dumbly at the clock tying to decide how long it has been cooking for. Then the pretzel is gone and so is the peace. I make a guess, set the timer and find another pretzel before the screaming reaches it’s full crescendo. Nate enters the kitchen, spies the pretzel and announces that he needs a snack. “No, you don’t. I’m making dinner and we will be eating soon.”

“But HE has a snack!”

“Yes, that’s so that he will stop screaming at me while I’m cooking.” Even as I say it I know how unfair this is. “The pretzel will not ruin Ollie’s dinner, he will eat it anyway. You will eat a snack and decide that you don’t want your dinner and we’ll fight about how many bites you have to eat of every different item on your plate.”

“Well, I’m a better eater than he is.”

This is absurd. On every level. And as I am already at the very end of my rope I miss the sign clearly pointing to The High Road and take a detour down The Wrong Path. “Nate, you are not a better eater than Oliver. You are better than him at many many things, but not eating.”

And now it’s a fight. I have let him draw me into a fight over something as pointless as this and before we even know what happened we’re both yelling. And then all three of us are yelling. And then the rice boils over.

Somehow I regain my composure, save the rice and end the argument. Somehow I manage to finish cooking the meal and get it onto the plates. And Jay arrives and we sit down to eat and the rice is overcooked and I’m exhausted. And Nate announces that his food is yucky and he’s not going to eat it. And the bite by bite negotiations begin.

It’s the same every night. Every single night. The meals change and the arguments change but the feeling of dread that settles in my stomach as the clock nears five remains the same. Someday it will get better, all the bumps in the road of parenting are temporary. Perhaps someday in the future the two boys will play together nicely in another room as I cook. Perhaps someday we’ll win the lottery and we can order in more often. But for now it’s a miserable end to an already very long day. For now I hate five o’clock. But I love leftovers.

I hate five o’clock. It is the absolute worst part of my day, every day. I can remember when that very same hour was a time for celebration, a time to pack up at the end of a long hard day of work and head home to relax, or go out with a few friends for some drinks to let off steam, or go get dressed up for a romantic date night. Not any more. Five o’clock in my house means it’s time to make dinner. And I actually enjoy cooking, that isn’t the problem. Well, I guess it IS the problem, but it’s not that I dislike cooking.

At five o’clock Nate is at his worst. He’s tired from a long day at school and a long afternoon playing and lately with all the behavior issues by five he’s already trampled my last nerve. Five o’clock is when the whining begins and the complaining peaks and it’s also the hour when he really starts needling his brother.

At five o’clock Oliver is tired from alternating between playing with Nate and fending off Nate all afternoon. He’s starving too. Even though he ate a snack that resembled a feast only an hour ago. And as soon as I enter the kitchen he follows me and begins to scream. Full out, volume 10 screams. He hovers at my ankles like a dog begging for food scraps. I try not to trip on him as I gather the pots and pans. I try not to shut his little fingers in the fridge door as I assemble my ingredients. And a try not to begin screaming myself even as my ears start to bleed from the deafening howling at my feet.

I fill a sippy cup with milk and hand it to the banshee. It is accepted and the din temporarily subsides. I take this moment to sneak a look at the recipe and begin to chop and wash veggies. Nate takes this moment to shout at me from the other room with a pointless question that really has no answer. “Mom, what if I was Mario and I jumped off the ceiling and flew through space and banged my head on the garbage can?” This is followed by insane giggling. I’m not really listening, the water is boiling and I’m measuring the rice. “MOM, I’m gonna go flush myself down the toilet!” Again, I decide that in an effort not to encourage this base humor I will not offer a response. “MOM! What if I went to . . .” the sentence continues but cannot be heard as the banshee has lost interest in the milk an resumes his auditory assault. But this doesn’t stop Nate. It’s crucially important that he illicit some response from me even though I have made it clear countless times that I do not enjoy this humor and choose not to respond when he starts down this path. He tries in vain to scream louder than his brother and my head begins to pulse.

I can literally feel my blood pressure rising, the tension invades every muscle in my body and I carelessly trip over my unwanted foot accessory on my way to the pantry. Now the screaming turns to howls and I must stop cooking to comfort the uninjured but very offended baby. Nate takes this opportunity to yell at me about how I’m only paying attention to Oliver and not him. I explain that I’m not paying attention to either of them as I am attempting to cook something that we can all eat in a little while. And besides, I do not enjoy having him yell at me from another room about nonsense. I have told him a million times to come into the room to have a conversation with me, not to yell from across the house. Now would he PLEASE go find something to do while I cook. He sulks off. When he is gone I grab a pretzel to pacify Oliver so I may resume my job.

For a few moments there is silence and I am able to dice the chicken. And then I realize that I forgot to set the timer for the rice and I stand staring dumbly at the clock tying to decide how long it has been cooking for. Then the pretzel is gone and so is the peace. I make a guess, set the timer and find another pretzel before the screaming reaches it’s full crescendo. Nate enters the kitchen, spies the pretzel and announces that he needs a snack. “No, you don’t. I’m making dinner and we will be eating soon.”

“But HE has a snack!”

“Yes, that’s so that he will stop screaming at me while I’m cooking.” Even as I say it I know how unfair this is. “The pretzel will not ruin Ollie’s dinner, he will eat it anyway. You will eat a snack and decide that you don’t want your dinner and we’ll fight about how many bites you have to eat of every different item on your plate.”

“Well, I’m a better eater than he is.”

This is absurd. On every level. And as I am already at the very end of my rope I miss the sign clearly pointing to The High Road and take a detour down The Wrong Path. “Nate, you are not a better eater than Oliver. You are better than him at many many things, but not eating.”

And now it’s a fight. I have let him draw me into a fight over something as pointless as this and before we even know what happened we’re both yelling. And then all three of us are yelling. And then the rice boils over.

Somehow I regain my composure, save the rice and end the argument. Somehow I manage to finish cooking the meal and get it onto the plates. And Jay arrives and we sit down to eat and the rice is overcooked and I’m exhausted. And Nate announces that his food is yucky and he’s not going to eat it. And the bite by bite negotiations begin.

It’s the same every night. Every single night. The meals change and the arguments change but the feeling of dread that settles in my stomach as the clock nears five remains the same. Someday it will get better, all the bumps in the road of parenting are temporary. Perhaps someday in the future the two boys will play together nicely in another room as I cook. Perhaps someday we’ll win the lottery and we can order in more often. But for now it’s a miserable end to an already very long day. For now I hate five o’clock. But I love leftovers.

Advertisement