Wednesday, May 16, 2012
I hate taking naps. Always have, and probably always will. I currently will only take an official nap if I'm so tired my eyebrows won't move. (Sitting down to watch TV, and waking up, mouth gaping open, an hour later is not an official nap.) As a child, the top item on the list of things I would do when I grew up was "not take a nap". My mother was a huge fan of naps. Mom actually enrolled me in morning kindergarten so I wouldn't miss my afternoon nap. Seriously, I thought there was a massive plot to force me to sleep against my will. When I was about three, I was in my bedroom, supposedly taking a nap. I needed to go potty but was afraid I would get in trouble if I was caught out of my room. So, I was left with three little poop balls in my undies. I was trying to figure out what to do, when I spied the heater vent. Without hesitating, I rolled the turds down the vent, and my problem was solved. I don't remember if there was a bad smell the first time the heat came on after that. Perhaps this would explain why the sister who occupied the bedroom directly below mine was always crabby. Poop poisoning? When I met my future husband, I was unaware of his penchant for napping. By the time we married, I thought I could just "fix" Rick's desire to nap regularly. Little did I know he came from a family of extreme nappers. He couldn't help it, and I was a dumbass newlywed who thought she could make a few corrections to her groom. Duh. Now, over thirty years later, my daughter is showing signs of the Napper Syndrome. My son, however, hasn't gone over to the dark side. And I still don't want to take naps when I grow up, whenever that might be.