Kate’s nap time has evolved, albeit in not the right direction over the past few months. Our days of the easy, cooperative, sleeper are but mere memories. Occasionally Kate does fall asleep at nap time, but the other 75% of the time, she resorts to some interesting uses of this time in her room. This includes, lying in her bed, screaming “I’m awake!” or “I’m never going to take a nap!” at decibels loud enough to evoke response from the local community. Other tactics include the endearing stalling method of never-ending demands to use the bathroom, get a drink, or untangle her from whatever contorted mess she’s made of the things in her bed. When Kate employs this tactic, we lovingly refer to her as Joseph, as in Stalin. Get it? Totally inappropriate, no?
Kate’s napping antics have not elicited her desired response: the abolishment of our insistence that she even try to nap. Begrudgingly, she’s reducing her attempts to engage in these annoying behaviors. Perhaps she doesn’t like to be called Joseph. Her new approach is to utilize that time to talk, sing, and play in her bedroom. While my ultimate goal is for her to sleep, I don’t think this quiet non-nap time is a bad second choice. For her and for her mother.
Yesterday, she had been in her room not-napping for quite some time. I had issued many directives about her need to sleep, less she risk not being able to participate in the activities planned for the afternoon. It had become increasingly quiet in her room and I started thinking that she might have actually surrendered to sleep. As soon as I allowed that thought to cross my mind, I’d hear a quiet noise from her room; just loud enough to arouse suspicion. This continued to happen for the next half-hour or so. As soon as I was convinced she was sleeping, I was jolted by her loud demand to use the bathroom.
Upon entering her room, the creative use of her nap time was evident, as was the source of the occasional sounds I had been hearing through her monitor. Her beach towel was strategically placed in the middle of her bedroom floor and loaded with every stuffed animal in existance. Kate sat on her bed with a sheepish, guilty look on her face, and said, “Mom, they went swimming. Then they were cold, so I had to dry them off and warm them up.” I could have imagined it, but I swear she also lowered her chin and fluttered her eyelashes just for effect.
It was just then that I noticed two of her stuffed animals that had been relegated to the other side of the room, banished from their comrades on the beach towel. While I wouldn’t have typically found this odd, they had evidentially been placed there by Kate, instead of with the rest of her toy-mountain.
“Kate, did you put these two animals here?”
“But, why did you move them way over here?”
“Didn’t they swim with the rest of the other animals? Why did you move them all the way over there?”
“Because they are loud mom … they make noise.”
I’m in more trouble than initially anticipated. Please send in reinforcement.