A lot of things in my life are riding on naps these days ― writing time just being one item on a long list that includes eating, showering, paying bills, returning phone calls, catching up on stuff that I didn’t finish at work, and organizing the morass that is my office.

When she is awake, my two-year old daughter, Emi, is like a jackrabbit on speed, which makes it next to impossible to get much done beyond folding half a load of laundry (this accomplishment is often canceled out by my failure to move whatever I’ve managed to fold out of reach) and maybe grocery shopping, if the list is short and the shopping cart strap heavy duty enough to keep a twenty-three pound Houdini safely in her seat.

The fact that this two-hour oasis of free* time has become so essential to my sense of having even the slightest bit of control over my life has made her recent nap strike all the more horrifying.

Last Sunday, after setting her loose in the park all morning with my friend’s two active young boys, I was certain that I could look forward to a nice, quiet afternoon while Emi rested and rejuvenated.

Instead, she spent 45 minutes using her crib mattress as a trampoline and then took off her diaper and peed on the sheets. I came in to find her completely naked, holding a sodden Pull-Up in her hands while commenting,” Holy crap, this is wet!”

So much for that shower.

After this scenario was repeated several times in the ensuing days, I called my mom for help. Which really wasn’t very helpful. She tells me, “Well, you stopped napping before you were 2.” I don’t know whether to believe this or not because, according to her, I was also fully potty trained and probably reading by this age as well.

“Maybe you should put her to bed later.” 

Labels: naps, Sesame Street, Shannon Matus-Takaoka

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