Re-Entries: Believe It or Not

, like most, ended on an up-beat. I'm hesitant to say more, and that's not just because both the Golden Globes and Downton Abbey are competing for my attention tonight. I wish that blissed-out, Apple-centered account of my sojourn told the complete story. But like a witness sworn to tell the whole truth (and nothing but the truth?) I feel I must submit a follow up.  

Let's see, I believe we left off just before midnight New Year's Day, somewhere on Washington Avenue. My 2-year-old was uttering adorable toddler-versions of main street establishments and the credits were about to roll on It's a Wonderful Life in Pleasantville. 

Right. Well, I can report that in my version, an angel definitely did not get his wings. Sort of the opposite, actually.

We transferred the kids and the endless cargo to the house without incident. I barely remember getting into bed myself. Maybe that's when it happened—another transfer, this time of the supernatural variety.  

I awoke at 10:30 a.m. to a sound that can only be described as unbridled shrieking. Definitely not human. I rubbed my eyes and forced myself to move toward the malestrom. There were two creatures in the places where my children were supposed to be—their mouths open, their eyes wild, their limbs flailing. They were the monster versions of Alice and Hazel—and it quickly became apparent that I was the primary object of their sadistic mission.

So much did not make sense. When I mentioned breakfast they just kept saying, "Chocolate Santa" over and over. Television provided no balm—they were relentless in their demands for portable electronic devices. One minute they were trying to escape the house and take off down the street and the next they forced themselves upon my lap for endless amounts of hellish "time ins." One of them, the smaller one, had the most horrible way of insisting, "I pway wif your phone, Mama! Now!"

Oh and the obsession with snacks—the snacks! The snacks and the sweets and the snacks! Which snacks could they have now? No, not THAT one! What else did I have? What about a sweet now? How about now? Now? Eventually I dramatically threw open all the cupboard doors and left the room crying, "Have at it! I give up!"

There was no preschool that first day. New Year's Day Observed. Observe this, Y2K12: If we're supposed to start each year as we mean to continue, then the best I can say is that on the slim chance I survive, this column is going to have a very good year indeed.

That night kicked off a series of bedtimes that began at 7 p.m. and lasted until all parties had given up, just before midnight. The sounds that emanated from our home at that time caused the huge Newfoundland next door to keep nervous watch on his side of the fence, barking at the sky for intervention.

These demons seemed to be on some sort of time zone just east of Hawaii—I mean, I definitely considered jet lag, but these dudes were *way* off.

Maybe they were vampires. It did feel as though they were sucking everything out of me. But they weren't the hot, rich Young Adult fiction vampires that would be cool to hang out with. They were the lesser film versions: if they didn't push my buttons so precisely I would have proclaimed them a giant bore.

We were first in the parking lot for preschool drop off on Tuesday. At this point I was almost full blown crazy, compulsively smoothing back my hair and uttering to myself under my breath: "Just get rid of one, and keep the other strapped in, that's two and a half hours you can deal with."

I hesitated for one moment as I passed the elder monster off to the unsuspecting teacher: Should I warn her? Nah! I skipped back to the car, visibly lighter. The little one was waiting for me—I took a deep breath and checked to make sure my phone was hidden from view.

On pickup I hesitated once again. "Everything go okay?" I ventured tentatively.

"Yes!" the teacher rejoined. "We are so happy to have Alice back!"

Alice? Alice! So maybe she really was back!

Then we got in the car.

"How was your day?"

"YOU ALWAYS ASK ME THAT! I HATE THAT QUESTION! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW?!"

"Listen, if you speak to me that way you are going to lose dessert."

"Oh, whatever. You'll just forget."

I looked at my water bottle and briefly considered throwing its contents on her.  I mean, maybe the Wicked Witch Just Back from the West Coast had possessed my 5-year-old. This was just one of the thoughts that went through my mind that week that seemed perfectly reasonable to me at the time.

That night I ducked out from the bedtime battle two hours in, logged onto my computer and joined . That giant indoor germ-infested play-quad saved my life those first four days.

On Day 5, I searched the calendar for clues: surely these holy terrors could not survive the Feast of the Epiphany. And that's when it happened—my epiphany. I turned to Mr. R and gave him the for early bedtime.

He looked at me strangely. It was 4:45 p.m.  

I was putting all my chips in. Why risk enduring the excruciating bedtime struggle for an additional two hours? Because Reader, I was done. I had nothing left to give. Plus the little monster had a distinct look of surrender in her eyes. She hadn't even mentioned the iPhone in five hours. 

It was a Twelfth Day of Christmas miracle. They both gave up simultaneously just after the bath, around 5:50 p.m. Mr. R and I, still shell-shocked, barely moved from our spots on , afraid we'd break the spell.

The next morning I gently awoke to the sound of chattering. Blessed, sisterly chattering!

"Okay, Haze, we can ask Mama. That's a fun idea."

"Okay, Awice."

I looked at the clock: 8:05 a.m. More than 14 hours! Just 14 hours and five days, that's all it took for our re-entry to be complete. I heard the footsteps of Alice coming towards me in the hallway. 

"Hey, Mama." Calm, respectful, loving. 

We were back.