My college roommate, freshman year, tried to create ‘room 206 naptime.’ She loved to nap; I didn’t; she thought I should.
So at 2pm each afternoon, when neither of us had class, we climbed into our beds. She dozed. I gazed at the ceilings, the walls, longingly at the door, thinking of all the things I could/should/wanted to be doing. She knew I wasn’t sleeping and eventually, she gave up. And the naptime ritual ended.
On weekends now, there is a similar naptime ritual at my house.
1pm. I tuck in my girl. My husband stretches out across the couch. Cats curl up in their respective corners.
And I stay awake.
Yes, I should sleep. Not because someone else thinks I should. But because carrying one child in my womb and another on my hip for hours is exhausting. Because sleep will soon be elusive with a toddler and a newborn, most certainly operating on different schedules, and I should rest up while I can.
But I stay awake.
I do laundry. I write. I enjoy the moments of peace and freedom. Nobody needing anything, nobody talking to me. Not even the cats try to crawl onto my lap.
I tiptoe around the house. And I get to see things like this.
I enjoy moving around on my toes. I enjoy the challenge of being oh so quiet.
I feel, often for the first time all day, that I am really and truly caring for them, by caring for myself.
The house is my oyster at naptime.
And when everyone begins to stir, and once again begins needing and talking and staking claim to my lap, I’m ready for them.