Nap Time Warrior?

My daughter is finally asleep for her mid-morning nap.

When I say “finally,” I mean since she first woke, which woke me, and forced me to behold a new day, which is 100 times more confrontational than being asked your order at Five Guys.

Once you lay your beloved to sleep, do you ever hear this ragged, sort of manic, ominous voice exhale words in your mind: “sleep FOREVER….”? It’s certainly menacing, but it’s indicative of my need for personal time. Let the professional moms purse their lips, wags their fingers.

Coming from me, my kids are proof of “farts-to-pearls” alchemy, but this doesn’t always keep me from longing for time apart, between me and my fart-pearls.

Anyway, I have this running list of tasks I would like to accomplish to justify my oxygen consumption for the week, but once the house is silent, I like to ploppy-sit like a Persian cat and research (See: google) my running list of obscure, useless curiosities and move in slow motion. Slowly. Slower.

Because of this misuse of my free time, I am a bountiful cornucopia of trivial facts (the harvest is plenty), which does not impress my husband or children. It occupies much of my most readily accessible memory, and yet, I still do poorly at bar trivia (I don’t actually get out enough to do bar trivia, truth be told). The few times I’ve participated in trivia, I’ve embarrassed my husband or directed all my hawk-like attentions at the teams ‘round us who were shamelessly cheating. Where is justice? Where is consequence? I am a righteous judge wielding the heavy hammer of the law. My judgment is an arrow shot straight and true: Execute these rats! And their families. Leave not a thread behind to make evident their previous, sordid existence.

She just woke.

BEFORE she woke, I had these little bursts of euphoria, where I forgive everyone for everything and want to start sorting my recycling (instead of serving the collectors my weekly garbage soup…I see your recycling guide and I’m following it very loosely).

Anyway, the bursts of euphoria are short-lived. I imagine the damn cat actually just stepped on the“philanthrope” button on my desk, the button stuck, and the button was swiftly corrected by the neighbor “misanthrope” button feeling unnatural outside of “locked-down feels best” mode.

I’m going to try again later, when she takes another nap, which is another opportunity to save the world.