The Dreaded Afternoon Nap of Childhood

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

As a child I loathed naps. In the first place, a nap was never my idea. Napping was a concept foisted on me by adults. The take-a-nap command came at inconvenient times, often in the middle of a game or an argument. Naps involved washing grimy feet or taking off shoes that needed to be tied again. Naps often took place atop a chenille bedspread that created telltale facial indentations. And finally a no-more-backtalk-from-you nap involved close-contact supervision.

 

Usually that meant lying beside my grandmother. She was a world-class napper. Once she removed her dentures, loosened her corset, and slid off the black shoes that were standard grandmother footwear in the early 1950s, she’d fall asleep before I could recite the alphabet. If I had breath to do that while caught in a grip stronger than a junkyard mechanical claw. Escape—without gnawing off body parts—was impossible. And, believe me, I considered gnawing. Especially when the snoring began.

 

My grandmother was a big believer in modesty and what I now call “ladylike-itude.” Consequently, she would never admit to the sound effects she created while asleep. But, trust me, their variety and volume never failed to amaze. Had we lived near the ocean, she could have stood in for a malfunctioning fog horn.

 

Trapped, I’d lie there counting flowers on the wallpaper or finding birds in the plaster swirls on the ceiling. And I’d constantly remind myself of the reward for serving time in nap prison—milk and cookies.

 

But, let’s flash forward seven decades. Now it’s my aging body creating a symphony of sounds, including snoring. I own it. I admit to it. But I still hesitate—if only for a few seconds—to sleep during daylight hours when my husband is awake to hear. Never mind that he could snore for the USA in Olympic competition, I can’t escape my early training in modesty and denial.

 

But my aging body insists on rest periods—a few minutes to slow down, sit, or maybe snatch a nap. So I shrug embarrassment aside and head for the loveseat. After much trial and error, I’ve established the optimum sleep-inducing position and accrued nap-enchancing accessories. Those include a fluffy blanket to cover my feet, a not-too fluffy pillow for my head, and a size-too-large hoodie. Pulling the hood down over my eyes means there’s no need to pull the shades and make neighbors wonder what I’m up to.

 

I quickly cataloged types of naps: the doze, the snooze, sleep surfing, out like a light, and down for the count. What took longer was learning how to tell when a nap was over. Aside from a pressing call of nature, ringing phone, pinging text, whining dog, or a knock at the door, there was often no reason to rise. Then, with a prompt from my stomach, I recalled that time-honored, nap-concluding reward—milk and cookies.