When you’re a four-year-old, nap time is rarely a simple undertaking. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever met a child who welcomes nap time.
When I was in kindergarten, there was an allocated time for naps each day. But as kindergarteners, our resistance was valiant. By week 3 of school, Mrs. Lanson accepted defeat and decided to do away with nap time entirely. Soothing to sleep a classroom full of rambunctious five and six-year-olds was surely no easy task.
But if she could manage to monitor 20 children at once — even if she couldn’t get them to sleep — surely I can muster preparing one four-year for nap time, right?
I’ve managed to get Charlie to sleep before, after all. But as months have ticked by and he’s grown tall enough to reach his own door handle, nap time has grown into a more trying endeavor.
After 2 stories, 3 attempted escapes, and Charlie’s 15th battery of laughter following his 20th poop joke, he begins verging close to something that almost resembles sleepy. Almost. Unfortunately, Charlie still has another trick up his sleeve.
“Okay, so how about… when you count to 60, I’m done my nap,” he propositions me.
But unfortunately for Charlie, he doesn’t yet understand loopholes. So I agree to his proposition. “Sounds like a deal!” I acquiesce.
“Good. So… I think I’ll get to 60 at the same time you do. But you have to count. Seriously. I really need you — I really need you to count. If you don’t, then it’s gonna be an awful, blah-bah day. And I don’t want it to be a blah-bah day. That’s why I need you to count,” he implores me with puppy eyes. “If you don’t count, then I’ll get mad. So if you count, I’ll be happy.”
I almost don’t have the heart to show him how our definitions of seconds might vary.
“Okay… 1… 2…. 3….. 4……” My seconds begin to grow further apart.
I hear him rapidly whispering numbers to himself as I continue at my much slower pace. I watch as he begins to struggle keeping his eyes open.
“Could this strategy really have worked?” I wonder to myself. “5…… 6…….” I slowly back away and out of the room. I’m surprised not to hear any protest from the drowsy-growing preschooler across the room.
Thirty minutes later, though, “BEN!!!” echoes through the house. It’s quickly followed by the question “Are you done counting!?” But I don’t reply. Thirty seconds more pass, and once again, I hear a “BEN! Are you done counting yet!?”
So I go upstairs to check on him.
“Did you call my name?” I ask with a friendly smile.
“I was just wondering if it was time for me to get up yet.”
“Nope. Not yet.”
“You should be at 60 by now!”
“Nope. I’m at about 30. 31… 32…. 33…..”
As another 10 minutes and 4 seconds on my turtle-speed counter roll by, I hear him begin to call my name once again. I try to ignore him, but as the hot June afternoon continues to wear on and the yells fail to subside, I check on him yet again.
I open the door to a wide-eyed Charlie. “How about we just do the letter before 60?” he asks preciously and immediately.
“Okay deal. We can do 59,” I concede.
“But when are you gonna be at 59?”
“Let’s see… we’re at about 37 right now.
“After 37, you’ll be at the 9-letter — number… okay?
“That’s not how numbers work, silly!”
“Well… can you just change how numbers work?”
“I can’t change how numbers work, buddy!”
“Well… I just don’t really like being in here.”
I can hardly blame him. I’ve been told not to use the air conditioning today because of the air quality outside following the Canadian wildfires.
“Aw, I’m sorry… it’s just gonna be a little while longer, okay? Just try to get some sleep. When we get to 59, we’ll be done nap time!”
“Well, when will you get to 59? After 3 letters? After 4 letters?”
“37… 38…. 39…..” I make a smooth retreat once again. Once I close the door, I hear him continuing to count to himself in an elated little whisper.
But minutes later, the yells resume and I return to Charlie’s room once more.
“Just tell me how many numbers you need to do more.”
“I need to do 16 or 17 more numbers.”
“It’s really boring… And I’m getting kinda — wanting to watch a show. And I’m just — I’m just wondering what you’re doing. That’s the only thing I’m doing in my room. I’m only wondering what you’re doing.”
“I’m just hanging out, watching a show downstairs.”
“Wondering is being awake and I’m wondering! Wondering is being awake, and I’m wondering!”
“Wondering is being awake?” I ask.
“Wondering is being awake, and I’m wondering,” he repeats once more with a delighted smile.
“Wondering is really being awake. Well, I’m really wondering. I’m gonna be wondering in my room, too. How about you get back to the counting numbers in here?” he asks.
“Just a few more minutes of rest, and we can get up from nap time, okay?” Whether he’s actually slept at all in this prolonged nap period, I can’t be totally sure. And whether I can trust him to tell me the truth on this front is even less certain.
As another 15 minutes go by, and I reach the long-awaited end of my 59-second count, I go to retrieve Charlie.
But this time, he actually appears like he might be resting.
“Wanna sleep a little longer?” I ask him.
“No! Is it time to get up!?”
“Yep! We can get up,” I reply with a chuckle.
“YEAH!!! YEAH YEAH YEAH! YEAH!” he explains with unrestrained excitement in an almost jarring change of pace. It was only 20 seconds ago that he seemed to be fast asleep, and now he’s chanting, “try to snap me!” and wildly imitating the motion of an alligator’s jaws with his two hands. It’s one of his favorite games.
And with that, we spend the next 20 minutes playing a game to which only Charlie knows the rules. I try my best to keep up and understand his child-like ways.