On the 10th day, angels sing

The husband works later than I do, so nine days out of 10, I'm the parent picking up The Boy from daycare. That hour between our getting home and the husband's arrival usually is the longest of the day. Dinner needs to be made. The Boy wants a snack. Lunchbags and containers need to be cleaned. The Boy wants to play. Phone messages and mail are waiting to be sorted. The Boy wants to read. I want to change my clothes and pee. The Boy throws a tantrum. The husband calls to chat on his way home. The Boy demands the phone. Dinner is burning/boiling over/not heating up fast enough.

And then, the husband pulls in the driveway. The Boy runs out to him with this huge grin on his face as if the preceding hour of tetchiness never happened, and I try to be grateful for the fact that I've got help now and not resentful that I've been alone for the nastiest hour of the day.

Not every night is horrible. Some nights are easy-peasy. Dinner's already done or The Boy is feeling angelic or I'm more patient than usual, or -- when the stars align and Mars is in the seventh house -- all three combine into a blissful evening. On those nights, the husband comes home to find us sitting in the middle of the floor doing puzzles or reading or waiting outside for him playing ball. But I think every parent, whether they stay-at-home or work-outside-home, knows the dangers of the pre-dinner witching hour. If ever there is a time to do whatever works now, whatever keeps the most people alive and sane, that's it.

Which is why I appreciate so much the tenth day, the day when I have to work late and the husband gets to pick up The Boy. Yesterday was the tenth day.

The husband and The Boy were waiting at the end of the driveway when I pulled up. I beeped the horn and The Boy stretched his dirty face into a wide grin. When I opened the car door, The Boy ran over to greet me.

"Hi Momma! Eat pop-sic. Help."

I pushed up the popsicle in its plastic tube for him to take a bite.

"Tank you."

Thank you, indeed.