"I don't think I have a choice", I said.
And that is exactly how I feel on Sundays. I literally have no choice on wether to nap or not. My body knows. My body instinctively knows it will not get much mattress time until Saturday morning, and that's a maybe. My body starts to sense this in the last few minutes of church, when my eyelids become heavier than day 1 on the Biggest Loser. The head bobbing while sitting in the pews is embarrassing, but it can't be helped. My body knows it must wind down from the week's adventures and gear up for new ones. My body knows it must avoid the chaos of life for a few hours in order to endure the chaos of life.
So after church I dole out the rations to the natives and tip toe upstairs. They all know where I'm going but I still feel I must be sneaky. Somehow, being sneaky makes the nap more forbidden and much more luxurious. With white noise and the cave like feeling I have created in my room, it has become optimal for afternoon slumber. Of course my offspring choose this time to get along for the first time all week. And by get along I mean, play games, run up and down the stairs, create theater, and solve boredom problems by making as much noise as possible. If Dad is around I can hear the "shhhhhhh" even through my blaring fans. He knows. He knows mama needs her naps. If mama aint rested, well you know, life sucks for everyone.
As I learned most my good mom traits from my own mother (she won't take credit for the bad ones) , the art of napping came from her too. Why were moms so tired I wondered. I did not know about the hours they kept, the tossing and turning from worry about kids, teenagers and the complete lack of energy one feels after raising kids for years upon unrewarded years. Not sure how restful her naps on the couch, in full view of the family were, but it seemed to work for her.
And little did she know, she was showing me my glorious napping future.
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| My mom, perfecting the art of the nap since 1967. |
