Every day I "imprison" my son behind the bars of his crib.
It was never quite so bad but that was before we took away his bottle. I was dead set against this wicked decision, but my husband stood firm. “He is old enough to be off the bottle”. I, however, was not done with the bottle.
Well, it is a good thing Mr. Lewandowski does not have to be home when the little guy naps because I practically have to bring out the tear gas to get him to bed. Actually, he just brings out the tears and the wailing and gnashing of teeth.
I hand him his cup of milk, let him fill his little belly and lovingly put him in his crib with a big stuffed monkey to hug. I gently stroke his hair and shut off the light. Each time I do this I get my hopes up that this time will be easy. It has actually happened a couple of times, though rarely.
After about 10 minutes of screaming my patience is nonexistent and I feel like I am a cruel enforcer of naptime. I know he is tired. I know I am tired. I know his sister is tired. Why does he fight it?
So, alone I sit in my office working wondering how long it will take for the little boy to fall asleep. Oh the guilt. It is almost too much to handle.
Wait until he is my age. He will jump at any opportunity to take a “Nanny-noo” (nap). I know I would.