Desperate Times; Desperate Measures.

 Each of my children are very familiar with a certain time around our house.  It's called "rest time."  I can't call it nap time since, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I have been chosen to mother "those" children.  The ones who stopped napping soon after they were able to walk. The ones who because they didn't nap were cranky by 4:00.  And I'm the mom who keeps trying to figure out what magical potion mother's give their children who are still taking naps at ages four and five. 

My son quit napping at eighteen months.  Because of the fact that he was in the "zero percentile" for height and weight, had little interest in food (yes, my husband lived through my "what if he's not my child" freak out session one night in bed), I was constantly baffled as to where his energy came from and why in the world that energy didn't drop from 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m. each day like every other child?

Ella, my oldest, quit her naps at eighteen months as well. When the day came that I realized she just was not going to sleep, I became desperate.  Frankly, I didn't know what in the world I would do without those two hours of respite.  I didn't understand why the doctors at the hospital sent me home with this child without addressing how I would handle this fateful day.  Nap time withdraw was a dangerous place to be as a tired mother of two littles; I decided that this desperate situation called for a desperate measure. 

So, I put a child proof door handle on Ella's door and gave simple instructions:  "You stay in your room until it's time to get out."

It worked like a charm.  Every afternoon Ella would play quietly in her room for two hours - I thought I was mommy genius.

So, at eighteen months, Jrod received his first "lock me up" handle as well.  I gave him the same simple instructions:  "I'll let you out when it's time.  Just stay quiet."

He stayed quiet alright.  To this day, I will never understand why the toy store that was his room was less interesting than his dirty diapers.

For two weeks straight, we had post rest time stress disorder around our house.  I would think he was quietly playing - or, gasp, napping - but then, when it came time to gear up and let my children go, I would discover the horrifying art of human feces all over Jrod's room.

Day after day, I would convince myself that the stern discipline had finally soaked in.  Each afternoon I'd assure myself: It won't happen again.  He's too afraid.  He won't do it.  He gets it.  Put the carpet cleaner away.  

After two weeks, I thought my son might have a learning problem.  My pediatrician assured me he was just fine.

Just on the brink of giving up on rest time and letting my children run free for those two precious hours, I came up with another idea.

Desperate times calls for desperate measures.

We gave Jrod a "special belt."  He was quite pleased with the duct tape that went around him three times every afternoon.  We told him Superman wears a special belt too.

My rest time was restored.  No more messy, hour long cleanups with carpet cleaners and bleach.  We were good to go.  Again, I thought I was mommy genius.

But then we had a third child.  She too, in line with the curse that is upon me, gave up naps at eighteen months.

So, Lily was introduced to "rest time." 

I gave her the same simple speech:  "You stay quiet in your room until I come to get you." 


It was brilliant.  She caught onto rest time like nothing I had ever seen - there were times I even rewarded her with M & M's for a rest time well done.   


It lasted about two weeks.

I was used to listening to Lily's conversations with her make believe friend, Rea, and I was even used to the harmonica and accordion that she played on a regular basis.   It was the large banging that kind of alarmed me.

On this particular day, this is what I found: 
Lily had broken off the leg of her beautiful wooden table.  I don't know how.  Jrod says that she's not a human being and for a minute I kind of believed him. 

And then, a few days later, I went to grab a bathing suit from her drawer.  There was, however, no drawer.  She had somehow ripped the entire front off the drawer and I found it laying on top of her trash can.  She told me she'd take it to the downstairs trash because it was too big for hers.  Thanks, Lily.
 

 And then a few days after that, rest time concluded with the discovery of a large amount of rice covering the floor of her room as well as large amounts poured down the vent.  At this point I asked my husband to assure me that "Rea" was not some "being" living in my daughters room.  He assured me.  Jrod stood by his conclusion that she's an alien with magical powers.   

 And then a few days after that, I went to gather her from rest time only to discover that her beautiful, wooden chaise lounge was broken apart.  I still cannot not figure out how a three year old could possibly do this.  I'm beginning to think along the same lines as Jrod. 

 And again.  The nice shelf white shelf with a wooden door is now door-less.  Although lily claims that it "still works momma" by simply placing it in front of the shelf. 

 And the nicely painted green?  Apparently it's not that difficult to chip away paint with your fingernails - even when you're three. 

 I decided to leave up the cute, but now destroyed by my toddler, curtain tieback in hopes that her "magical powers" will restore it to it's intended form. 

 The stranger thing is that Lily does none of this out of anger (or so it appears).  When I come in to get her, even if she's naked from head to toe, she's happy as a lark. 

 

I suppose rest time may be over in the Polski house hold sooner than I had hoped.  But, for now, I keep a box of tools in the closet near Lily's bedroom.  Besides, desperate times calls for desperate measures.