|Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and a sleeping infant. Figments, every one.|
In this house, long naps are a myth. For some reason, O. will not nap here for longer than thirty minutes. Here, in this beautiful house I built her nestled in a quiet New England hillside. Peaceful. Bucolic, even. A napper's paradise. But no, thirty five minutes is considered a good stretch. She's just not a napper. Or so I was led to believe--until this past weekend.
We took a trip to New York to play some music and visit the family. My folks live on an incredibly busy street in Yonkers. A major trucking route. A busy bus line. Down the road from a hospital. A mile or so from a fire station and a police station. Between two churches, one of them an all-out gospel affair.
Anne's sister lives in Brooklyn, and from what I understand, the BQE bisects her apartment. You have to cross the expressway to get to the bathroom.
We knew we were doomed as far as naps went. The plan was to suck it up and hope she would nap well in the car on the ride home. O.'s plan was a little different. She decided she would nap for 1.75 hours in Brooklyn, and for 2 hours in Yonkers. She is grounded until further notice for f**#^!g with my head.
This is mystifying as it is frustrating, especially since I just fought for a half-hour to get her to go down for a nap here, knowing she will be up in approximately 20 minutes if her other two naps from this morning are any indication. What gives? Maybe I'll loop a recording of traffic into her room and see what happens. Someone suggested it was the heavy NY air. Others said it was the smell of bacon cooking that sent her to dreamland. Whatever it is I wish I could figure it out. If nothing else, it's a good excuse to start eating bacon again.
Creative Commons Flickr images by naturemandala, zimpenfish, and deflam.
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