My Name Is Wendy, and I’m a Napaholic
by Wendy Sang Kelly
 
I swear, some new parents can be so competitive. Always comparing what their babies did and when. You know, “Little Hortense walked at nine months.” (Yeah, right.) Or, “Junior here was potty-trained at six months.” (And wet the bed till college, bless his heart.) I’ve even heard moms comparing how quickly they lost all their baby weight; “Would you believe I wore my pre-pregnancy jeans home from the hospital?”  (Oh, I’m so happy for you…more pound cake?)
 
My favorite of these not-so-subtle contests by far is the “How-old-was-your-little-darlin’-when-he-or-she-first-slept-through-the-night” competition. Of course, I must confess that the reason I love it is because I’m always the undisputed winner (some might say loser, but I prefer to stay positive.) 

Whenever I overhear one of these conversations, I make sure to horn myself right into it. First, I feign sympathy as I listen patiently to their pitiful stories. (Your baby didn’t sleep through for six months, you say? Aww, that’s terrible. How positively dreadful! How did you ever survive?) Then I fish around, dropping hints until someone finally asks me to share with the group. How old were my babies when that blissful milestone finally arrived?
 
That’s when I say, with as much nonchalance as I can muster, “Hmmm…let me think…oh, that’s right: 67 months.”

Yes, folks, we have a winner! Ding, ding!

I get a big kick out of dropping that little bombshell, but sometimes it takes them a minute or two to absorb what I said. 67 months? Is she kidding? They try to be polite, hoping that I am, in fact, joking. Then their compassion begins to give way to alarm. Am I a liar or a lunatic, they wonder? Perhaps both. Even better, some crazy broad who’s spawning a mutant strain of nocturnal babies. Run for your lives! It might be contagious! (Come to think of it, they always do seem to make a quick getaway, as if I might spontaneously combust from the sheer pressure of my own self-induced martyrdom.) And as entertaining as it is to see their reaction, I don’t do it just for the sport of it.  I really don’t. Okay maybe just a little. Mostly I do it as a means of self-preservation…it’s the perfect excuse for any and all bad behavior on my part, past, present, or future. (Example: I was most certainly not drunk when I did the chicken-dance on the head table at your niece’s wedding. I was merely sleep-deprived.)

The fact remains that both of my kids really made it all the way to kindergarten before I ever got a full night’s sleep. Seriously. Now, I’m not saying they never slept. (That would be an exaggeration, and I make a point to never, ever exaggerate. Ever.) Of course they slept. They slept from the rocking chair to the crib. They slept in my arms while I was making dinner. Lots of times they slept just enough in the late afternoon to guarantee a full eight hours of fun and games later that night. So, yeah, if you want to get technical, they slept. They just never got in the recommended 8-10 hours in at one sitting, or during the night, for that matter.  

During those months of endless, ominous nights, I tried to while away the hours productively, which mostly involved fantasizing about the day they would both be in school, as I planned to sleep for six months straight. The only fly in the ointment being the fact that hibernation isn’t exactly considered normal behavior for human beings, and if you attempt it, some well-meaning, yet meddlesome neighbor might just make a little call to social services. So I was forced to settle for the next best thing—habitual napping.

Truth be told, I think a nap is just about the best thing in the whole world. In fact, I’d have to choose a nap over just about anything…shopping, sex, even Krispy Kremes. I take that back…naps and Krispy Kremes are dead even. And actually, if I really tried, I bet I could scarf a few K2s down while napping. Which is why I hired one of my kids to hide the box—it’s in everyone’s best interest, especially my thighs. 

So I make a concerted effort to squeeze a nap into each and every day. No matter what. Which is probably why I lost my job as an air traffic-controller. Of course I’m kidding. It was all those cocktails that got me fired. (Note to self: when drinking martinis out of your coffee cup, skip the olives. Too obvious.)

One of the best things about naps—other than the actual sleeping, of course—is all the great dreams. They’re way better and easier to remember than the ones you get at night. In nap dreams, sometimes I can talk to animals. Sometimes I can fly. Sometimes the entire world adores me. Always, I am a size 4.

Nap dreams can put you in touch with your own infinite potential. You could crochet beautiful sweaters out of dryer lint, for example. Or live in a mansion made entirely of chocolate ganache and marshmallows. Or become a Gucci-clad super hero saving the world from a hostile amazonian celebutante who relies on a steady diet of human brains and bad taste to fuel her diabolical plans for world domination. You get my point.

I hardly ever have nightmares during my naps, either. Except one time during a particularly long nap, I dreamt my boss was screaming at me to pack my stuff and hit the road. Wait a second…that really happened.

Thirty (or ninety) short minutes later, I wake up feeling completely refreshed and ready to tackle the remainder of the day. You’d be surprised how much can be accomplished in 15 or 20 minutes!  Sufficiently rested from my nap, I feel invincible—ready to take on the world! For me, nothing is impossible! I can do anything!

Except, of course, find that damn box of Krispy Kremes. 

Wendy Sang Kelly is a writer and humorist from Isle of Palms, South Carolina. She lives with her husband, Pat, their two daughters, Rigby and Coco, and Skeeter the dog. Wendy is an avid gardener and runner (when she's not napping, that is.)

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