Rosemary is poised right on that threshold of not needing a nap anymore. Her brain - her busy, fiercely learning high-gear little brain - is telling her that there is so much more fun stuff to do than to to lay down with her blankie, that there are cars and dolls and skates and kites and bikes and computer games and what's mama making in the kitchen? and cats to
She'll stay awake, fighting rest, determinedly slow-blinking and widening her eyes so she won't fall asleep, and she'll carry it off so well her father and I will nod at each other, a little sad that maybe our baby is growing up enough not to need her nap anymore.
But then.....by six-thirty she's worn out and spoiling for a temper. Nothing is good - it's all bad, and we're all out to thwart her. She's the unluckiest girl in the whole world, because surely - SURELY! - other parents are nice to their daughters. JUST NOT HERS.
It makes the putting-to-bed ritual a long process, dodging the one-slight-away-from-falling-apart ball of tiredness that Miss Rosey is in her napless state, and has us sighing with relief when she finally gives up and puts her head on the pillow.
Some days I recognize that this is all part of growing up. Necessary. A stage.
And some days I tremble inwardly, thinking what the hell is this going to be like when she's a teenager?