Sunday Naps

This afternoon we found ourselves in a quiet house. Chase and Chandler were playing across the street at the home of friends, and we somehow convinced Mary Mac to lay in her bed for an afternoon rest. It is a phenomenon that doesn’t occur often, but when it does, we all go looking for the elusive nap.

John was on call this weekend, which meant multiple calls in the middle of the night as well as numerous trips to the emergency room to admit sick patients. Training during his days of residency cured him of needing more than five hours of sleep at one time, but it is the repeated interruption to his sleep pattern that brings on the exhaustion at the end of his seventy-two hour responsibilities. That issue coupled with my supposed “stealing of the covers” and “commandeering of his territory” (his words) does not make for a restful night.

This morning, the alarm clock screamed especially early, as John’s duties were twofold. First he had to make rounds on twelve patients at two separate hospitals before rushing to church, with worn Bible in hand,to teach Sunday school. All in the pouring rain. And all while answering his cell phone every five minutes to answer my frantic questions about the location of my car keys. And my favorite lipstick.

So this afternoon, the house was full of quiet, our stomachs were full of carbs and our eyelids already full of the sheep we would soon be counting. John found the bed first, while I answered a few emails and checked on a few ebay items that the recession and the "stimulus package" remind me that I don’t really need. I tiptoed into Mary Mac’s bedroom to make sure she was asleep before delighting myself with the delicious slumber that would soon be mine.

She was not in her bed.

I have reluctantly learned not to immediately resort to histrionics when I cannot find my daughter. It has been a painful process, but one that has been good for my overall maturity as a parent. That is all I can say about it at this time.

Calmly, and because I am now mature, I walked into our bedroom, very reluctant to wake up John with the news that Mary Mac was not in her room.

This is what I found:



In case you were to think that Mary Mac had her arms around a headless man, let me quickly ease your fears. To block out the usual noise that vibrates through the hallways of our home, John habitually buries his head under his pillow, like a medically inclined ostrich, in a desperate attempt to gain a little peace and quiet.

Maybe you need a closer look:



Oh, the joy of Sunday naps. And the over consumption of carbs. And a little girl who prefers to nap right beside her daddy even if she can't find his head.