I am typing this as I attempt to get my daughter to take a nap. I am failing.
I can hear her over the monitor chatting away and just know that she is not going to sleep.
I love her dearly and nothing in the world makes me as happy as watching her play.
But I adore nap time!
I am typing this in between carrying her back to bed as she gets up and attempts one of her many clever diversionary tactics. I have fallen for them all before. I admire her ingenuity.
I know that in a minute I will crack and resort to one of my tried and tested approaches. The monotoned storytelling. The head stroke. The ssshhhh to fade. And, when all else fails, I will simply climb in beside her.
It may or may not work.
And this is not a place for me to offer my mothering tips (see above. I have nothing else!) or a place for me to judge anyone else’s parenting approaches (although, if you know me, I am sure that at some point you have had to listen to me expressing my opinions on various methods). This is simply me killing time in an attempt to stay sane.
I look back fondly on the time just after she learnt to self soothe and nap time was simply a case of watching for the signs and laying her down. I could set my watch by her. Household chores crammed in to 40 minutes.
I recall those first few months and my obsession with routine. The time and effort I invested in ensuring she got enough sleep and fell asleep in the way I wanted. Patting and swaying to the radio four times a day.
And then I remember the early days when coffee with friends was easy. The carry cot nestled by the side of a table in the sun. Twitching purple eyelids and rosebud lips.
I realise now that the chatter has stopped. She is sleeping. But I know I will creep upstairs just to check. Just to see her.
Because I realise now that nap time won’t last forever.