Nap Time

When I was kid, I hated nap time.

It wasn’t necessarily the physical act that frustrated me.

A big part of it was knowing there were still plenty of Hot Wheels races to be run, G.I. Joe adventures to be undertaken, and thousands of innings to go before I should have to sleep.

I suspect there was also a part of me that believed I was missing out on all the best things in life which were going on while I was wasting hours in my bedroom, envisioning the toys which sprang to life while the nightgown-clad toymaker was asleep upstairs in the Merrie Melodies cartoons on TV.

I distinctly recall getting into trouble with Elizabeth, the Colombian woman who served as my day-care provider in the 60’s, over sneaking out of bed when I was supposed to be snoozing.

(It wasn’t until I was older that I realized nap time for kids is less about letting the children rest and recover from their morning activities, and more about letting the adults rest and recover from the child’s morning activities.)

My day care center, which was actually Elizabeth’s house, didn’t involve foam pads and half-pint cartons of milk and festive colors on drab white concrete block walls surrounded by licensed professionals.

My day care center involved trees for climbing, mud, bugs that would actually sting (and which to my childish surprise were never poisonous), sharp pieces of metal, mud, dogs that would occasionally bite, forts, pointy sticks, gumball and pine cone fights, mud, and enough sports-related injuries to fill an orthopedic surgeon’s appointment book for a year.

I don’t remember a lot about the inside of Elizabeth’s house, mostly because I didn’t spend much time there outside of the mandatory mid-day nap times.

I do recall the few times I was indoors and enduring some remedial behavioral modification.

Elizabeth wasn’t big on positive reinforcement, time outs, or other child rearing psycho babble aimed at preserving my fragile child psyche.

When I messed up, I would hear about it.

When she was mad, Elizabeth would go off like Ricky Ricardo on crystal meth, rattling loudly at me in unintelligible Spanish.

Occasionally, my corrections would involve a switch, which Elizabeth could wield like a practiced vaquero on the pampas.

She could slice through the air with it and make it snap like a green bullwhip, which in my memory is way worse than the few times she actually spanked me with it.

Elizabeth was a huge believer in nap time for youngsters.

As I got older, into my teens, I didn’t enjoy nap time any better than I did as a kid, and for many of the same reasons.

My adventures involved girls named Robin and Judy instead of plastic warriors named Joe, but innings and football quarters were still a big part of my waking day.

Into my early 20’s, I still hated going to sleep.

As a musician, 3 a.m. was prime time after a show if you knew where to look, even in a small Maryland town of less than 9,000.

I became a big advocate of the phrase made famous by Sam Elliot in the movie “Road House,” which was that “I’ll sleep after I’m dead.”

Now, I’m old.

For me, sleep is no longer part of the daily journey.

It’s a beloved destination.

I find myself checking the clock not to see whether I should chance trying to stay up all night like I did in my pre-marriage years, but to ascertain whether the clock is giving me digital permission to close my eyes.

On weekends, I find excuses for taking naps, instead of excuses for avoiding them.

I’ve even been known to take out the trash on a Sunday afternoon just so I can claim exhaustion and Z-out on the sofa for the rest of the day.

Today, I dread sunrises the way I once despised nightfall.

Fortunately, as I get older, mid-day naps have become more socially acceptable.

I’ve even threatened to move to Mexico in order to partake in the custom made famous in Speedy Gonzales cartoons, known as the afternoon siesta.

When I reach retirement, I will finally be able to catch up on all the sleep I lost when I was a kid and a teen.

And believe me, I won’t engage in retirement-age endeavors like Bingo, shuffleboard, and golf.

Instead, I’ll close my eyes and dream about them, where I’ll yell “Bingo” every 10 minutes in my sleep, bat the shuffleboard disc out of the park like the backyard home runs of my youth, and hit 18 consecutive holes-in-one without ever getting my plaid pants dirty.

This column originally ran in MesquiteLocalNews.com in October of 2008.