There are a lot of things I let slide in parenting.  The kid wants to get muddy in the backyard or run through the sprinkler in regular clothes?  eh, why not, you’re only a kid once.  He wants to squirt apple juice into his sweet tea?  I think it’s disgusting, but I guess it’s a toddler’s cocktail.  He begs to watch Cars for the seventh day in a row when I’d rather put on Tangled?  Catcha-cow, baby.  For the most part, if he’s still alive & not murdering anyone else (or their eardrums), we’re gravy.

But naps?  Sacred naptime that should be swaddled in silk & sung to with the voices of baby cherubs?  MOMMA DON’T PLAY.

This past weekend, my husband ran errands while I took charge of Harrison’s afternoon.  After he sacked out on the floor by his puzzle, I ushered him into his room, tucked him into Curious George sheets, & closed the door.  I hear him patter to the door & wail.  I give it a minute, two minutes, then open the door & gently tell him it’s naptime.  I tuck him back in bed, kiss his forehead, close the door.  All was quiet on the home front for about five minutes until I heard the banging of dresser drawers, a spill of books, & other sounds of pure mischief.

It was time to get my momma on.

(& by “get my momma on,” I mean morph into The Momma, complete with intimidating steps flying up the stairs while you freeze, caught red-handed & wait for that door to fly open.)

I do my serious momma walk up the stairs, take a deep breath, & open the door.   He’s standing amist all his clothes, emptied on the floor, holding a tube of Desitin.  Must. Not. Laugh.  ”Harrison, get in your bed,” I instruct in serious momma voice.  “I am not playing around,” I growl, picking up clothes & stuffing them back into drawers.   He hopped into bed, I dropped a blanket on him, & shut the door for a third time.

But this ain’t my first rodeo & I wasn’t about to be showed up by an almost two-year-old.  I dropped to my knees, placed my cheek on the floor, & squinted under his door.

p.s.  you’re right, I should get a video monitor.
p.p.s. doug thinks they’re too expensive.
p.p.p.s. any video monitor companies that need a blogger, HI!!! (kidding, truly kidding)

I waited, borderline passing out from breathing so softly, knowing it was coming.  I waited…& waited…did I underestimate my sweet baby?  What kind of awful mother thinks the worst of her child?  What kind of mother SPIES ON HER CHILD?  Under his door?!

Wait.  Is that rustling?  I try to press my cheek further into the hardwood to get a better view.  (note: that is impossible & just plain old hurts)

But then, my almost-strained eyeball, smooshed against his door, spied little feet swinging over the side of the bed.

BOOM.  I was in his room, serious face on before his toes even scratched the carpet.  “Back in bed,” I ordered, pointing to his pillow.   He scrambled, I shut the door for a fourth time, for cripe’s sakes, & resumed my position.

Knees on the floor, cheek on the ground, ass in the air, eyeballs on a mission.

I waited.  I breathed shallow.  I pushed the dog away when she tried to lick my ear.  Five minutes later, I stood up in pure satisfaction, dusting off my knees.

VICTORY IS MINE.

(he slept three hours that day)