I'm tired. I could go to bed at ten and wake up at noon--I'm sure of it. And while I suppose I could be dying of something and the exhaustion is just a side effect, I think it really boils down to something much more monumental.
The Rock Star doesn't nap anymore.
It's true. And it's been true for about a month and a half.
He didn't want to nap. Of course, I did want him to. So we fought. He cried. He laid awake for an hour. He snuck up the stairs. I put him back in the guest room. He got up. I laid with him. For forty five minutes. And, eventually, he'd fall asleep. Then he wouldn't be tired when it was time to go to sleep at night. So we would repeat the afternoon scenario. Two battles a day. Count 'em. One. Two.
One day he missed his nap and that night he was out like a light within 10 minutes of putting him down. AH HA! A light bulb flashed on in my head. (Apparently I have talking light bulbs and, really, you can't be that surprised.) I could fight with my child twice a day or I could abstain from fighting at all. And let me tell you with three-year-olds...no fighting at all. Always no fighting at all. I mean, trust me, we're going to go head to head at least 85,992,366,001 times a day anyway so eliminating two of those is completely worth it.
So he takes a quiet time instead. Which is great! Except it's not. Because quiet time sounds like this, "Mommy! Mommy. Come sit with me. Can you watch this with me? Can you do that cleaning later? Can you read me this book?" And I know he's growing up. I know he isn't going to want me to come sit next to him forever. I know that scrubbing can wait. Laundry can wait. Everything else I have to do can wait. It can wait until after he goes to bed. So it does.
I go to bed late. Then I wake up tired. The end.
Although, I suppose I could really be dying. It probably wouldn't be the first time someone keeled over because their three-year-old had more energy than they did.