I still remember those evenings, years after the fact, when I would beg my motherinlaw, Mrs. Whitmore, not to turn up at the witching hour. No matter how many times I pleaded, she never heeded my words.
For reasons I could never grasp, Mrs. Whitmore seemed convinced she had the right to drop in unannounced. My little boy, James, was only a year old, and I had settled him into a strict routine. If he didnt fall asleep by the time the clock struck eight, I would simply leave him awake rather than force a bedtime that would only lead to two hours of pure torment.
Talking to my motherinlaw about it was a lost cause. Every request for an earlier visit fell on deaf ears. She never seemed to understand that popping by with a oneyearold at that hour was a dreadful idea.
I work late, shed say, slipping in for a halfhour, playing with the child, coaxing a giggle, then stirring him up. That left me with a halfnight of battling a restless infant, his cries echoing through the house.
What could I possibly do?
That night, as per the usual routine, I tucked James into his cot. My husband, George, and I had already chosen a film to watch. Just then there was a knock at the door. George opened it to find his mother standing there, a tired smile on her face.
The surge of anger was immediate. I was furious. James had just started teething again and was particularly fussy, so we treasured every quiet hour. I tried to keep my composure. After all, she was my husbands mother.
I pretended to be in pain, pressed my hand to my cheek and cried out,
Youre coming at the worst possible moment! My tooth is killing meI cant stand it. I dont want to go to the dentist alone. Stay a while with the baby, and well be out of here shortly.
George could make sense of nothing. He hurriedly dressed, and we all slipped out of the house.
What sort of drama is this? George whispered to me.
At least well have a chance to be alone somewhere. And dont forget to turn the phone off! I replied.
We didnt get back until after midnight. Mrs. Whitmore had taken a cab home. The nursery was a mess: a cot in the centre, dirty nappies and soiled clothes strewn about, toys, pacifiers and rattles littering the floor in a chaotic jumble.
Mrs. Whitmore looked exhausted, her makeup smudged, her skirt stained with baby waste. Since that night she has come much less often, and never at such a late hour.
