Driving to collect my son, Sawyer, 13, from afterschool sports, with my 9-year-old daughter, Kate, in the backseat bopping to the radio, I had high hopes for a happy evening. There's nothing like leaving the stresses of the workday behind and reconnecting with two of the people I love most in the world. I dreamed of a calm, loving homecoming, a welcome retreat from the chaos of the outside world.

With Sawyer in the car, we headed home as I mentally prepared for a relaxing dinner of roast chicken and baked potatoes and family togetherness. Suddenly, a rude awakening."I was talking," Kate barked at Sawyer. "Don't interrupt me!" "I only said Nebraska has more in it than dirt!" he shot back."Teacher's pet, know-it-all!""Quit it, you two!" I snapped. They were silent. I was irked. My vision of peace and harmony had already bitten the dust. Not only that, a good mom would have countered her kids' spat with an example of how to handle a disagreement sans shouting. After all, they just wanted to be heard after a long day. Hmm...me, too. When we got home, Kate refused to get out of the car. Sawyer, as always, was so eager to get in the house that he pushed through the door at the same time I did and launched his 40-pound backpack into a fly-by past my head, leaving a vapor trail of dirty sports socks, sneakers and school papers in its wake.Yes, this was just the beginning of what some working moms call their second shift and some, like me, call the witching hour. It's that rude bump of transition time from work and school to home. You rush around, simultaneously trying to get your kids settled, dinner on the table and the house tidied. Why does this all feel like so much pressure? Too much pressure? There's a lot you could feel guilty about if you were so inclined. I happen to be so inclined.

As I whirled around the house doing all those little chores I felt honor-bound to do—putting in the laundry, gathering the mail, sneaking a peak at my work emails—I thought: Don't let the stress get to you. Ignore the throbbing vein in your right temple. Kate finally plodded into the house. No rest for the moody, she immediately encountered homework-cop mom. "Okay, sweetheart," I chirped with forced cheerfulness. "Time to tackle that essay!" Ten minutes later, she had finished her first sentence when her brother entered the scene to make a dig about her handwriting. "Would you just leave us?" I asked him through clenched teeth. Oops, that brought on a stab of guilt. I was close to snapping, they knew it, and we hadn't even gotten to her guitar practice yet. I realized that my cup of guilt was runneth-ing over. I was behind on dinner: The chicken and potatoes were cooking, but I struggled over what healthy vegetable to make (guilt). The dog needed to go out: I could see Auggie Doggie crossing his legs (more guilt). I felt guilty interrupting the kids' homework, so out I trudged with the pooch, further delaying dinner.

When I returned, the house smelled odd. I opened the oven door to discover that two baking potatoes had exploded like weapons of mashed destruction. "If I didn't have to do everything, this wouldn't have happened!" I railed."Don't blame us," Sawyer said. "That will make us sad. Anyway, exploding potatoes are funny."

He was right. I was guilty of trying to guilt him so I could stop feeling guilty (and the potatoes were funny). I felt very guilty about that. Plus, I felt guilty for giving my kids such a shabby example of how to handle tension. But really, what am I supposed to do as a mom whose husband usually doesn't get home until after the kids are fed and well into homework and who feels burdened by too much on her to-do list? Yoga in the closet?

The next day, I called pediatrician and parenting expert Marilyn Heins, MD (parentkidsright.com), the author of ParenTips. "Help!" I cried.Dr. Heins explained that this transition period from the outside world to home, which she calls reentry, is a tricky time for working moms and kids. "Everybody's tired and hungry. You're tense from work. Little kids may be stressed from missing Mommy" and big kids on edge from school. Plus, she adds, "in this noisy, rushed world, it's hard to be serene." She assured me there were changes I could make to make the witching hour less witchy. (I'll bet some of these will calm your cauldron, too.)

Breathe instead of talk. I should stop pressuring myself to think of the "right" thing to say in every situation, she said. It's just too draining. Instead, when I pick up the kids, I could simply ignore their fighting or pull to the side of the road until they stop. I gave the latter a whirl the next night and— whaddaya know—it worked. They were shocked out of their squabble.

Just be for a bit. Instead of immediately buzzing around the house doing busywork, I need to plop down on the couch for a few moments and invite the kids to join me. I tried it. Sawyer said, "Uh, no thanks," but Kate joined me for a cuddle. Lovely.

Take time for your inner you. I should also relax on my own for a few minutes: change my clothes, close my eyes and visualize a place I'd like to be. ("I always choose the Blue Grotto in Capri with no other tourists around," Dr. Heins confided.) A young child could play in another part of the room while you do this. So I breathed deeply—and no longer resembled Edvard Munch's The Scream.

Ask for help (yes, really). "You've fallen into that 'It's easier to do it all myself' syndrome," says Dr. Heins, which, she kindly noted, has made me cranky. Better I chat with my daughter (at a non-witching-hour moment) about how she could manage her own homework. I'd also be wise to have the kids help walk Auggie, do some dishes, even prepare the potatoes—maybe my son knows the physics of explosion-proof potato baking. "Kids need to learn how important it is to work together as a family," Dr. Heins reminds me. "Expect the best from them."Fast forward: Kate, it turns out, likes being in charge of her work. "I'm going to write a poem about pickles," she announced one evening. "Please set the timer for ten minutes." And when I asked Sawyer to walk the dog, he opened his mouth wide to complain, but did it. Later—perhaps because he saw a big smile on my face—he offered to help with dinner. Bigger smile.

Hide out to chill out. I should try to leave the room before I lose my temper. If I do lose it, I should try to stop myself in the middle of the rant, go away and take a minute to release the pressure-cooker valve. If I do have a full and public meltdown? Just say, "Sorry." You know what? It works. I tried it out one day when the kids started in on each other as I was serving dinner and I—sound the guilt alarm—yelled at them. Immediately, I apologized. "Group hug!" my son crowed. "Eeeeew, no way!" Kate screeched, not wanting to touch him. Then they both burst out laughing and hugged me. It was just like I'd dreamed our evening would be.