A certain small sister of Mrs. O’s does not believe in the efficacy and importance of naps. In ten or fifteen years, she’ll change her tune.
Mr. O tends to nap when we are watching tv or a movie; he’ll look sleepy and I’ll suggest that we go to bed, but he always insists on watching that last half hour or one more episode of whatever it is we’re watching, which, let’s face it, is almost always The Office.
Anyway, I sigh resignedly and we keep watching, but in five or ten minutes Mr. O will have turned into the couch (ok, the futon that I got in college). If I go over to look at him, he informs me that he is “still listening.” Not so, I say unto you.
I find that naps are few and far-between these days, but this afternoon, due to an insistent illness, I had myself a glorious nipper nap. Mr. O went off to take a shower, I stole his spot on the futon, and . . .
. . . two hours later I woke up, covered in a blanket, to the very soft sounds of my husband playing Zelda.
I think we both won.