The Nap Gnome

I am convinced that on the days you most need/want your little one to have a nice, long, predictable nap, there is a sneaky little being I will call the Nap Gnome.  And I hate him (or her, to be fair). 

Here's how the Nap Gnome struck today.  We were driving back from a lovely outing to the Children's Museum.  Hannah was clearly tired, but also very involved with her PB&J, so I was confident we could make it home in time.  Torrey and I were planning to go see a movie together, a rare pleasure, so a good nap was essential to keeping the grandparents willing to babysit so we can spend some time alone together.

So then, I made a fatal error, and set out to take 99 to I-90, rather than I-5 to I-90.  Thus, I got caught in HempFest traffic.  My fault?  No, it was the Nap Gnome.  Do not be deceived. 

So I lost a precious fifteen minutes to traffic, then heard the kiss of death: Hannah's sudden and total silence.  I convinced myself she would transfer just fine, in spite of the story that history tells.  So we peaceably drive home and pull into the driveway, a minefield of nap-thwarting obstacles. 

Obstacle # 1 - my father in law was meeting with a plumber about doing some work on the house.  Where?  In the driveway, of course.  I pulled right up to the tips of their toes, practically, and into the middle of their conversation.

Obstacle # 2 - our screechy miniature poodle sees us come home and, as usual, goes completely batshit crazy.  I couldn't sleep through his dramatics if I were on sedatives.

Okay, so by now, Hannah is awake, but I'm just certain I can pull her back into sleep if I scurry inside past any more excitement.  But then she sees grandma, and she wants to play with grandma.  Grandma gets it, though, having been a sleep-worshipping mother, and clears our path to the bedroom as though we were fleeing a mob.

We're on the bed, and Hannah is sleepily asking for "beebie", which I'm certain will lull her back to sleep.  Just as I feel her body start to slacken and ease toward sleep, the damn dog starts whining to get back out of the bedroom that he was whining to get into just seconds before.  Hannah's blue eyes pop open, and she performs her amazing flip-twist, in which she quickly and with near superhuman strength flips from a side-lying position to her knees before I can even hope to convince her otherwise.

Eventually, I lure her back to lying down, having her beebie.  Then grandpa and the plumber walk along the side of the house, right by the window above our bed, which is open.  Repeat above scenario.  Except now she wants to go play, because grandpa is synonymous with play around here.

Round three.  I swear she's almost there, then daddy busts in singing "There's a Dog in School", much to Hannah's delight.  Seriously?  Seriously?!  

Eventually I gave up.  What is it about a missed nap that makes me feel like an abject failure as a parent?  Our plans worked out just fine and she was easy on the grandparents.  At bedtime she basically dove in.  But there is something about that two-hour break in the middle of the day that is so essential for parental sanity, necessary for a child's health and well-being, and yet at times, utterly elusive.

Nap Gnome, you will be defeated tomorrow.  Watch me.