Up in the attic, the three ladies compare notes on everything they've forgotten from the previous day and realize that something demonic's afoot. Raige and Phoebe have composed a spell to offset their faulty collective memory, and after securing Piper's permission to cast it, Raige recites the following:
Moments lost make witches wonder:
Warlock's plot? Or demon's plunder?
If this is not a prank,
Help us to fill in the blanks.
The camera's been slowly tracking away from the women during all this, and once Raige finishes the spell, the image of the gals smears, flips upside down, and spins. When the shot refocuses, the Glamorous Ladies have magically morphed into the outfits they were wearing at the top of the hour. Piper's surprised to note rain pelting against the attic's windows. She's even more surprised when Tiny Gay Chris starts wailing far below. "Oh, my God!" Piper breathes, and darts for the stairs, followed shortly by the befuddled Piper and Phoebe.
Down on the sun porch, Piper retrieves Tiny Gay Chris from his playpen and gasps, "I remember now!" Raige and Phoebe hang back on the stairs, all, "Yes, and?" "I'm a mom!" Tiny Gay Chris stares all foggy-brained as the stealthy commercials arrive on cats' feet to steal his breath away.
Sun porch. Aftermath. Phoebe tosses a newspaper onto the wicker coffee table and announces, "Today is yesterday." The ladies process through that statement's implications as Tiny Gay Chris squirms and mopes in Piper's arms. Piper places her son in his playpen so she and her sisters might continue the summit in the relative privacy of the parlor. Piper presents Tiny Chris with a cute stuffed bear, but Phoebe, channeling her nephew's emotions, bitches, "We hate that toy. It's yucky and crusty and gross." I'd ignore my seething hatred of Phoebe to wonder if Oscar The Raige-Humping Bulldog in any way contributed to poor Teddy's crustiness, but that thought's even more disgusting than Phoebe's psychotic grandstanding, so I'm led back to this familiar sentiment: Blow it out your ass, Feebs. And shut up while you're at it. Phoebe ignores me to determine that Tiny Gay Chris wants to watch some TV. Atta boy. Just don't watch this show. It'll fry your brain, and, knowing that your Dolt of a dad's responsible for at least half of your grey matter, I think it's safe to say you can't afford to be wasting neurons, kiddo. Raige grits something about the media's pernicious influence on fragile young minds, so Piper proceeds to find the dullest educational programming available. Seriously, it's some disembodied chick s-l-o-w-l-y spelling out colors as those colors flash on the screen. Tiny Gay Chris sneakily bides his time through "R. E. D." and, like, "V. E. R. D. I. G. R. I. S." until Mom's gone, then blinks. The channel flips up to ESPN Classic, where Nadia Comaneci's battering her husky frame against the uneven parallel bars. Scantily clad women already bore Tiny Chris, so he blinks again to land on a Discovery Channel documentary on dragon mythology. Or something. It's just two prehistoric, CGI'd raptors flapping through the air with no voice-over, so I'm making assumptions here. Tiny Gay Chris is pleased.