"Go to sleep, petite," I said, blowing her a kiss. "I'll see you in a little bit."
I went downstairs and settled in to pay some bills. I had just gotten everything arranged on my desk when I heard something moving behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw that I was no longer alone.
"All done nap!" WB said brightly.
I took her back upstairs and asked her to show me how she'd gotten out of bed. Without batting an eye she grabbed the crib rail, swung her legs up and over, and dropped to the floor. She stuck the dismount like Shawn Johnson and turned to beam at me. "Go dowstehs?"
WB may not want to take a nap any more, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need one. She SO TOTALLY DOES, and not only because I am old, and have been using her naptime to gather the energy necessary to get through the afternoon and evening.
A friend once told me that they had a neighbor who had a cousin who once babysat some kids who slowed down when they got tired. When their energy ran out they'd rub their eyes, yawn, start dragging their feet as they walked, and whoever was taking care of them would know that it was time to send them to their rooms to rest.
This has NEVER been true in my house. The more exhausted my children are, the more hyper they become. When Eldest was small, I knew it was time for bed when he started running laps around the dining room table. Her Ladyship got ridiculously pigheaded and confrontational, and Young'un would start bouncing off the furniture, then burst into tears when asked to stop.
WB seems to have combined all of these traits into one destructive, opinionated little package. By 7:30P Wednesday night the house looked as though a tornado had hit it, and I was completely wiped out. It took 45 minutes to restore order to the family room.
Thursday, her first official nap-free day, happened to be the day that Debbie Macomber was coming to sign books at my LYS. I hadn't thought it possible to go, since she was scheduled to be there in the middle of nap time, but since our afternoon break had suddenly gone the way of the passenger pigeon .... why not?
I tried to blow some stink off the child before we got there, I really did. We had half an hour between the end of school and the beginning of the signing, so I took her to a local park to run around.
(The children were allowed to wear their Halloween costumes to the Fall Festival her school held that day. The people who made WB's costume thought they were selling a Red Riding Hood outfit, but when I showed it to WB she pushed it away with both hands and said, "No. Witch."
"But this costume is cute!" I wheedled.
"WITCH!" she said, setting her jaw.
"But it has a cape, and ... it IS a witch, WB," I said, pivoting on a dime. "A red witch!!"
"Ooooo, roha witch!" she said happily [rojo = red in Spanish, again with the multilingual approximations], and allowed me to dress her in her costume and avoid catastrophe. The end.)
We got to the shop at about 12:05, and it was instantly clear that I had underestimated the drawing power of Debbie Macomber. The shop was bustling with customers, and the line to her table stretched almost to the back wall.
WB, who has been coming with me to the shop since she was a babe in a bucket, feels completely at home there, and while this is usually a good thing, with so many people milling about it was a recipe for disaster. I decided to buy a skein of Petals sock yarn (merino + nylon + angora = yum) and make a hasty exit, but WB's deceptively angelic behavior -- she clutched the yarn to her chest and stood (relatively) quietly in line beside me -- fooled me into thinking that nothing awful would happen if I were to buy a copy of Ms. Macomber's children's book and get it signed after all.
At this time, I would like to offer my apologies and thanks to all the people who were with me in the Woolpack between 12:15 and 1:15 last Thursday afternoon. You were all incredibly patient with my daughter (she was the one running laps around the shop, dragging the stuffed bear -- who usually sits in the mini-lounge chair in the front window -- by the hood of his sweater). I am willing to bet that it will be a while before you forget my child's first and middle names. I am also grateful to the woman who let me cut in line ahead of her at the register. I would have wanted to get us out of there, too.
A very special thanks goes to Debbie Macomber, who took the time to talk to every single person getting a book signed, posed graciously for picture after picture ....
and smiled all the while. Even when being photographed with someone who, when asked if she could sign their book, hugged the new addition to their home library tightly to their costumed chest, glowered at the author, and said, "NO!!"
I'll bet each and every one of you was ready for a nap by the time we left.
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