Today I had the honor of being a Patron Saint of Naps; I subbed at my son’s school during rest time. These kids are three and four, but under their blankies, sleep entranced, and lips pursed, they are once again babies. I had the pleasure of sitting between the two most nefarious nap-fighters, my son and his best friend. The instructions I was ordered to follow included: lay them tummy down, rub their backs, discourage noise. The boys were restless, but true to the promise of his teachers, sleeping and making little whuffles and buzzes after 20 minutes. Their partner in crime, a third boy of whose stubborn qualities we had not been warned, refused to co-operate at all and was not so precious. There was kicking. There was prodding. There was poking. There may even have been some grunting. The other mother in the room became exasperated and so I escorted the wee tyke out to the hallway.
“Buddy, you know there are sleeping kids in there.”
“And I know you cannot sleep today, but you need to be still and quiet.”
“Bud, you can’t kick the floor and make banging sounds. It’s disrespectful to the sleeping children and to the teachers.”
After a few more words of level-headed logic, I scooted him back to his cot, tucked him in, and started adjusting the blankets of his friends. Apparently, I was not as effective as desired. Of course, you knew this was coming. Boomp, boomp went heavy feet, poke, poke went little hands, and the other mother, after another diligent effort on her part, picked the child up, and carried him out and away from the lines of sleeping and more cooperative little people.
We never saw him again. He may have been bussed out and sent to stay with detainees at Guantanamo Bay as a form of torture—for them.