Naptime

Okay. Sometimes, it worked.

Naptime.

Next to bedtime, the highlight of a mother's day.

Or at least in my mother's day.

Mom was a great believer in the taking of naps.

It didn't matter if her children – ie. me -- weren't tired.

It they, meaning me, were willing and able to perform amazing feats of strength and energy. Provide positive proof that a nap definitely wasn't needed.

Someone needed a nap.

She would march me to my room.

Pull the blinds.

And point to the bed.

Sigh.

Reluctantly, I would lie down.

Mom would lie down beside me.

To make sure I stayed.

It worked.

I did stay.

Until she went to sleep.

See? One of us definitely needed a nap.

But I digress . . .

And that's when the skills I had learned over time at great personal cost came into play.

Let me describe . . .

First, I would slide out from under Mom's arm.

You have to know that this was only the beginning.

And, oddly enough, the easiest part.

Because once free of that arm, things got more complicated.

Mom was attuned to the slightest shift in the mattress.

I had to make sure that I didn't get careless and move too quickly.

Slowly, I would slide toward the edge of the bed.

An inch.

Another.

And carefully.

With long pauses between.

That fourteen inches of mattress looked mighty big at times.

And I didn't get a second chance if I got caught.

Countless times, I would have nearly reached my goal and Mom's eyes would snap open. “Diane! Get back here!”

Rats.

But there were glorious days when I was really sneaky, and would make it clear out to the living room before she noticed.

She would appear in the doorway, bleary-eyed and unsteady.

“Diane! What are you doing?”

It was a small victory.

But a victory nonetheless.

P.S. You know you're truly an adult when you no longer take naps.

But wish you did.

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