Frankie is growing out of her naps. This, of course, is totally devastating to me since I still harbor the insane hope that both my children might someday take a nap at the same time, leaving me to make a wreath out of daisies and dance with wild exultation about the yard. She still desperately NEEDS a nap, it's just that most days she won't take one. Except, of course, if Dean is home and I don't need her to take one because, hello, keeping children out of your hair is what dads are born to do. Still, each day I go through the motions of putting Frankie down for a nap, knowing full well in my heart that it is all for naught. It doesn't help that her nap routine is about as involved as writing my master's thesis was. How I long to have created a child that I bring up to her bed, give her a high five and a good-night kiss, and walk out the door. Instead there are complicated routines involving blue mouthwash and squirting syringes full of water and special sleep socks and a variety of books and songs that all add up to leave me in need of a nap myself when all is said and done.
Yesterday, we got all done with the routine and then Frankie looked at me and said soberly, "Mom, you have to make a CHOICE, okay? These are your choices. Are you ready? Your first choice is I can sleep for ONE HOUR. Your other choice is that I can sleep for however many minutes I want and then get up and play."
Um, I think I will take the first choice.