My children are captivating.
As in, they hold me captive.
When they drift to sleep at night, after Oli has resigned himself to his crib cell and Bronson has consumed half his day’s allotment of water, freedom remains a mirage. I’ll admit it: many days I long for bedtime. But once they’re down, I’m captive to the fear of their awakening. Ryan and I communicate in pantomime until we’re safely located on a different floor. Even walking downstairs proves treacherous. I think they have a sixth sense for squeaky stairs.
Bronson often dreams out loud. I freeze at the sound of his voice. If I had feline fur, it would stand up around my neck. My eyes beg Ryan not to move, and in the end, if either of us enter, it’s usually him. Because if Oli even smells me, he squeals for food.
Nap time is no different.
Once I find them both silent, I often long for a cup of coffee. (And yes, it’s the leftovers. And yes, I’m that desperate and addicted.) It’s a battle to know if it’s worth the risk. The microwave has buttons and sounds treacherously loud in contrast to the slumbering of my little ones. A few days ago, I made the mistake of vacuuming. Both of them were up within minutes.
Previously I claimed I was genetically predisposed to speeding. Now, if I were pulled over, I’m 99% certain it would be because I’m racing against one of the boys drifting into sleep in the car. Car slumber is the apocalypse of nap time. God help me, I crank the music, yell and screech and try to enlist Bronson in a wheels on the bus marathon.
I am absolutely captive to their routine and needs. I’d do just about anything to preserve the respite I receive at the hands of their rest. (Okay, not anything. I don’t drug them.)
Many times, I find myself sighing and slouching in disappointment as nap time gets cut short. But then I look at their serene little faces or their excited little grins, and I actually find them captivating. In those moments, I find myself a willing hostage.