Hell Hour.

Hell hour begins the moment my wife walks through the front door and lasts until Taylor’s bath time. My wife cannot wait to kick off her nursing shoes, hang her canvas tote bag in the foyer, strip off her scrubs, take a shower, and unwind from her stressful day with a few minutes in front of the mindless TV. I, on the other hand, after spending the last ten hours caring for Taylor cannot wait to hand her off, finish preparing and cooking dinner, open a beer, and talk to a real, live adult about anything. Regardless of what we want, squealing with joy and frantically waving her arms, all Taylor wants to do is jump into the arms of her mother! Hell hour, as described by Peter Baylies in his book The Stay-At-Home Dad Handbook, are the hours that can make or break your day, marriage, or your sanity. Hell, and the havoc that briskly follows on its heals, unveils itself in our house at 3:45 and withdraws around 6:45 p.m.– just in time for my wife to make her escape to the serenity of a quiet bedroom and for me to begin Taylor’s bedtime routine.

I first encountered these hours from hell coming home from work while my wife watched Taylor three days a week. (The other days Taylor was in childcare or in grandma’s hands.) Virtually every one of these days for the first four months my wife and I were irritated with one another: my wife wanted to hand Taylor over to me so she could quickly pull together dinner and begin her college work; and I wanted an extra half-hour to take a shower and change before attending to Taylor for the remainder of the night. We both felt taken for granted. We became frustrated, and we argued about these transitions three days a week. It was only when our roles were reversed and I was the one waiting at home for my wife to walk through the front door that I clearly saw the folly of my ways and understood, for the first time, what torture Hell hour was for my wife when I was the one walking through that same door.

In time, we have developed a strategy to rein in these uncontrollable hours of hell and share the responsibilities of childcare before they get out of hand. While my wife and I still desire our individual reprieves, we now meet each other half way. Taylor still wants her mom more than anything in the world when she comes home, but my wife, now, snatches her off her feet and hugs, caresses, talks to, and plays with her for several minutes before passing her back to me. Our playtime together is then brought to unprecedented levels in an attempt to distract Taylor for a few minutes while Mom quickly settles into her new role, mommy. For the next two hours my wife takes over as the primary care giver while I immerse myself in finalizing dinner, escape upstairs for my nighttime shower, and finish whatever chores left undone. By 6:45 I return, refreshed, to the role of the primary provider, while my wife is able to say her good-nights and retreat to the solitude of our bedroom until it is time to put Taylor to bed.

Our after-work routine is not perfect; it is wrought with compromise. In a compromise neither side gets all they desire, but for now it is working for us.