Beech Tree News Network

Wouldn’t you pay somebody just to be able to take a nap every afternoon?  Yeah, me too.  I wish my granddaughter felt that way.  My daughter, Natalie, is in the middle of her two-week special training with the National Guard, so I’ve got my granddaughter, Sabria, during that time. 
Before Natalie left, she did me the huge favor of lying down every afternoon with Sabria while she took her nap, so predictably, Sabria thinks I should lie down with her every afternoon while she drifts off to sleep; which would be fine if that’s what she did—drift off to sleep.  There isn’t any “drift” to Sabria’s afternoon nap.  It’s more of a white water rapids free-for-all until she works herself into exhaustion.
I, myself, remember hating naps, and I really hated the spankings that came as a result of my little sisters and me carrying on conversations when we were supposed to be napping.  My husband, Garey, was one of those easy kids who took a nap every day until he started to school.  Garey’s mom tells the story of how his sister, Charlotte, would rock herself to sleep on her rocking horse, and would wake as soon as Agnes laid her on the bed.  Off the bed she would go, climb right back onto the horse, and rock until she was asleep again.  Charlotte, who has a very demanding life now, says if she had it to do over, she would choose to nap on the bed.
Natalie was like Garey, she took a nap every day until she started to school.  My daughter, Nikki, however, stopped taking naps right after her first birthday.  She was just too busy.  Sabria has the “too busy” attitude, but unlike Nikki, who just went about her business without much ado, she whines and cries and is generally miserable to be around if she doesn’t have a nap, so I try to ease her that way every afternoon.  Occasionally, I can lie down with her, talk to her, sing a few songs and she’s out; but more times than not, it takes a lot more effort.
Two days ago was a more-times-than-not day.  Sabria didn’t want to lie on the bed, so I sat in the recliner and sang every song I thought would amuse her, including, but not limited to, the theme songs from the BackYardagans, Dora the Explorer, Sesame Street and Go Diego Go; two traditional lullabies; and Roger Miller’s, “You Can’t Roller Skate In A Buffalo Herd” (which actually made her take pause for about twenty seconds.  I guess Roger’s philosophies defy the ages.) 
When she started crying again, we moved to Natalie’s bed, which she used as a trampoline before she decided to stop and count the spaces in the wicker weave of the headboard.  She’s seventeen months old, mind you, so every number is goo or gee—I have no idea what happened to gun. 
By this time, I was getting sleepy, so I closed my eyes, which was a big mistake.  It is unbelievable how much pain the corner of a Kleenex box can cause when gouged into an unsuspecting eyelid.  I screamed, she ran to the other side of the bed and stayed there until I convinced her that Gan was fine and it was safe to return to my corner of the world.  She bent over my face with her little lips puckered—the way she does when she kisses the cats—and just as I lifted my face to meet her caress, she head-butted me and ran back across the mattress.  It was like trying to take a nap with a Sumo wrestler, diaper and all.
Not one to be deterred, I pressed on, pulling a few more songs from my repertoire: “Circle of Life,” “Under the Sea,” and finally “Shushy-By,” from some kids’ show I can’t remember the name of.  I could only remember the first line, “Oh my my, shushy-by, oh my my shushy-by,” so of course, this would be the song she would want to hear.  I sang the line over and over, embellishing the melody, using the techniques of rubato and melisma (I had learned in music theory) for variation so the monotony wouldn’t wear me down.  Monotony wasn’t a problem for Sabria.  Toddlers love monotony.  She finally gave it over and drifted off to sleep.  I slowly climbed out of the bed, congratulating myself on my perseverance and telling myself she would be out for a good two hours.
In the kitchen, I fixed myself a cup of coffee, picked up the latest mystery I’ve been reading and settled in for a few “me” moments.  I was half way down the second page when I heard a thud and a cry.  I ran to where Sabria had been sleeping, and discovered her on the floor on the far side of the bed—the side without a rail, the side that had been pushed up against the wall earlier, but had evidently shifted during the Sumo wrestler escapade.
I don’t remember it being this hard with my kids.  I have always said, though, that people who say things like, “They grow up so fast,” fall into one of two categories: victims of severe memory lapse or liars.  Natalie keeps saying that I show signs of early on-set Alzheimer’s.  Maybe she’s right.