We are in the middle of a marathon. One in which we see how long we can survive without our two-year-old taking a nap. If winning criteria was based on public meltdowns, hours spent bent over the crib back-rubbing, or number of times I have asked Henry to stop hitting his sister with a toy vehicle, we would win.
There have been a lot of changes going on around here, seeing it's September. Topping the list, a switch from nursery school to public Kindergarten for Jane. And summer is over. But the biggest change September has ushered in is Henry has stopped napping. We forgot his pacifier on the Vineyard. You’d think we’d have another one around, but we don’t. So when we pulled in the driveway at 10pm, Nukless, we decided to pull the plug. He hasn’t napped a wink since. And he is tired. So very tired. But truly, I can’t get him to sleep.
I remember the days of wrapping a much smaller Henry like a little burrito. Snug in an airy, cotton blanket, arms tucked deep inside. Peaceful. Lashes bobbing heavily in dim light. Early motherhood is dappled with memories of getting children to sleep. Watching them nod off to a stream of songs, rocking, walking, nursing. Waiting for lids to flutter one last time. Soft, raspy breathing. The rise and fall of a tiny chest. Then creeping out the door.
I have solely relied on naps to get any artwork (or any anything for that matter) done. I know navigating naplessness is a change all parents go through, and in the long run, these milestones pass quickly. But, really, it’s trying my patience. And making me yearn for times when I could fit him squarely in my lap. Rock us to quiet. Control the framework of our day.
I am not sure how long this will take, but for now, thank goodness, its night. And finally, Henry sleeps.