Napping With My Four-Year-Old

They, with their infinite wisdom, say that I will miss these days. And while at many times in our lives we wonder who exactly “they” are, as if there really was a select group of people who long ago proclaimed such things as “don’t go outside in the cold with wet hair” or “wait fifteen minutes after eating before going in the pool,” I know who “they” are this time. They are the sweet grandmothers at my church. They are my older co-workers. They are my parents. And they are the strangers out and about, who, seeing my then well-behaved kids, tell me to hold tight to every moment.

Too many times, however, I find the advice impossible to follow. Surely I will not miss the evenings when my children, instead of brushing teeth before bed, turn the bathroom into their own water park. Nor will I miss those careless hands at the kitchen table that topple cups of milk. Surely I will not miss the cries of “it’s not fair” at any perceived slight, nor the candy wrappers tossed behind furniture by those believing they might be getting away with something.

But “they” persist, and I heard their words again today as I read to our youngest at naptime. Soon to turn five, he continues to hold on to his afternoon naps, not because he really wants to, but because, I suspect, my wife needs him to. With the daily demands inherent in raising three children, keeping our household going, and serving at our church, I imagine having the youngest asleep for ninety minutes each afternoon is a blessing. To be honest, it’s a blessing for me, too. In addition to reading to him on weekend afternoons, I often fall asleep beside him. Such naps are often the light at the end of my work week’s tunnel.

This fall, though, our youngest will start kindergarten. A longer school day for him likely means that his afternoon naps will be no more.

Today, as I tossed our last book to the foot of the bed and pulled the quilt up close, I placed my hand on my son’s side. During his purposeful burrowing to find the right spot on the mattress and pillow, I hoped my hand might calm him, that it might guide him into sleep. He soon became still, except for the steady rise and fall of his body with each breath. Their intervals became slower, and slower, until I was sure he had drifted off to dreamland.

I followed him there today, with my hand still on his side as though he were leading me. That’s when I heard them.

“You will miss these days,” they whispered.

As I stepped through that quiet in-between, I knew they were right.