the pitter patter of little feet

It was Sunday afternoon.

There is really only one thing that Sunday afternoons are good for. And if you say FOOTBALL or NASCAR, I will probably smack you. Because those are totally the wrong answers.

All the smart, wonderful, intelligent, educated, and extremely cool kids take naps on Sunday afternoon. (All of the OCD-ish-tendency mamas do laundry and vacuum up the peanuts and make dinner and don't sit down all afternoon, but that's another post entirely.)

At the Maison Dayton, this is the routine for a Sunday afternoon: scurry home from church, make some scrambled eggs, put the boys to bed, and curl up on the couch to sleep.

HB is compliant with the napping. Because by the time he's played like crazy with all the other short peeps in the church nursery, and eaten his weight in Goldfish crackers, he's pretty much spent. The walk home and the eggs just put him over the edge. Pop a binky in that guy and he's out.

I appreciate sleepiness in a child. I really do.

Wee Man? Not so much with the compliance at sleeping time. He's walking the line with naps, sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't, and it is really messing with me. It's possible he knows it's messing with me and is holding out on purpose, because we have that going on here sometimes, but it's possible he's just about to be done napping.

Excuse me while I take a moment to weep.















And (hic) I'm (sniffle) back.

The Mister made him a nest in our bed, that Sunday afternoon which was crying out for napping. Nests involve pillows and stacking and cave-like creations that cause children to sweat themselves to sleep. It's very tricky and employs strategery. Wee Man was very excited about this most excellent nest.

I came downstairs, fluffed a couch pillow, got my favorite quilt, unfolded it, and...

THUNK THUNK SHUFFLE SHUFFLE THUNK SHUFFLE THUNK... Guess who.

Go. tobed.

Mama. You're not...you have... you must... I have a good nap.

It hasn't been five minutes. Go.

But I'm havin' a short nap today.

Bed.

You're... kid... you aren't... you shouldn't...

Go back upstairs and get in bed now.

You are kidding me. You have to be kidding me.

Wee man! I am not kidding. Go. NOW.

You're totawwy kidding me.

Go.

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP...in the style of one three year-old who is pretending to walk up the stairs.

Seriously. Go upstairs.

Nah, I think I wiww stay downstairs.

BED. NOW!

You are stiww kidding me.

Dude.

PATPATPATPATPATPATPATPAT...in the style of an obedient child.

Except? PATPATPATPATPATPATPAT back down the stairs.

I want Daddy.

Daddy's at a gig.

But I want to cuddwe.

I can't cuddle you down here. Go upstairs.

But I want...

To sleep. You want to sleep. If you go upstairs, I will cuddle you. If you stay down here, well, then no TV for the rest of the day.

And that boy ran away, lickety-split, faster than lightening. No kidding.

The end.