4:30 PM

4:30 pm.

That’s when all chaos breaks loose.  The kids are at their finest.  Tug-of-wars blow up into World War III.  Somebody gets pushed off the chair.  Inevitably a crayon or pen is discovered, to the dismay of our kitchen floor.  Or some week-old cheerios on the floor is gobbled up.  The urgency to run around in circles overcomes them.  And like clockwork, the noise level triples.  We mustn’t just talk.  No, that won’t do.  We must holler and screech and declare everything at the top of our lungs.

4:30 pm.

I call this time happy hour.  Not because I am happy.  But because I desperately need something to get me through the next couple hours of mayhem as I try to cook, try to feed, try to clean, and more importantly, try to maintain my sanity.

I have no bartender skills.  But once in a blue moon, I give it a try.  With some good vodka and a martini glass stocked in the freezer, I’ve learned to make this simple little concoction for my own personal happy hour at home.  Nothing fancy.  Why cranberry raspberry?  That was the juice I happened to have.  I don’t plan these kinds of things.

Mix together:  vodka, cranberry-raspberry juice, splash of lime

It doesn’t get more simple than that.

The chaos continues as I cook dinner with one kid hugging my leg and another kid patting my tush.  Nevertheless, a sip here and there seems to make everything seem just a tad bit more comical than diabolical.

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