C has developed a curious strategy for avoiding naps. And quite frankly, it's working beautifully.
The day I discover that nap time will no longer be a simple routine, C seems to go down as normal, shouting his usual, "night-night, mama," as I quietly tiptoe out of the room and close the door. As I walk downstairs to play with his big sister, I can hear him chattering and singing, his normal self-soothe routines. About ten minutes into Chutes and Ladders, though, I hear loud shouts of "help, mama, help!" Not overly alarmed, but curious, I peek my head into his room and expect to see his puppy or night-night on the floor. That was the optimist in me; instead, what stands before me is my son, completely naked (which he had not been when I placed him there) pointing to the floor, showing mommy where he had pottied into the floor through the bars of his crib. I am greeted by a, "Look, mama. I did it." I couldn't have said it better myself. By the time I clean him, his bed linens, and the floor, I realize nap time is over, so throwing my hands up in defeat, I take C downstairs so he can play games with A and me.
Not wanting to make too big a deal out of the previous day's nap time debacle, the next day I follow our normal nap routine. Two books, followed by singing: Jesus Loves Me, Jesus Loves the Little Children, and He's Got the Whole World in His Hands, complete with verses about Lightning McQueen, Mater, Thomas, and Percy because as the song says, He's got the whole world, and that includes toys. I rock him for a few minutes then place him in his crib, say "night-night," and quietly exit the room. Ten minutes later, I hear, "Help, mama." At least he's consistent. Curious as to how consistent I rush upstairs, open his door, and see diapers everywhere. I am so baffled by all the diapers that I don't notice at first that my little exhibitionist has again stripped down to his birthday suit. "C, what are you doing?" I ask. "Look, mama," he says looking over his diaper display proudly. "Were you trying to change your diaper all by yourself?" Again, I take him out of the crib, and this time, changing my strategy a bit, put him in his zip-up footie pajamas with the button at the top. I clean up the diapers, placing them in the diaper holder hanging on the side of his crib and for a second, contemplate moving it. That can wait, right now my nap window is shrinking, and A is downstairs eager for time with mom. I place him back in his crib, cover him up, and whisper "night-night" over my shoulder as I am closing his door. Twenty minutes later, silence, and one sleeping toddler.
A few days later, thinking surely my once eager little napper is through his jaybird phase, I prepare him for his nap. This time I stay upstairs for a few minutes, just to see if I can hear any of the commotion, so I can quickly intervene. After a few minutes of silence, I walk downstairs to watch a movie with A then as if on cue, I hear, "Mama." With more urgency, "MAMA!" "Oh, dear," I wonder and walk upstairs not knowing what to expect from my boy. I open the door to find him lying in his crib, still covered up, holding his puppy. Thrilled, I say, "Night-night, buddy." He throws off his blanket, stands up and says, "I done, mama, I not tired." Shaking my head, I pick him up, and once again, admit that I've been outsmarted by a two-year old determined not to miss whatever adventure he thinks mom and A are currently having downstairs. Oh, well, as a famous, probably exhausted, Southern woman once said, "tomorrow is another day."
