The plan for today was to go to the playground while m* had brunch with her friends. Then maybe the grocery store. An early nap and then some playing before dinner, bath, and bed so that we could watch the game (ugh — the game.) But at some point in the morning, it became clear to me that going to a playground where there was no potty was going to be a bad idea. He had already exhibited some of his classic “I have to poop” moves and I could just see it: we’d be at the playground, he’d know he had to poop, know he didn’t want to and/or that there was no place to go, he’d be clingy and miserable, I’d be miserable, no one would have fun, I would potentially lose my temper, the whole thing would suck, the end.
The gauntlet was thrown: “We can go to the playground after you get your poop out.”
We never got to the playground. I have to say that it’s not for lack of trying, though. To his credit, he did do two 20-minute tries (and was rewarded each time; first, with the rest of my bagel, which he really wanted and next with helping me bake cookies.) But y’know, it turned out to be one of the best days we have spent at home together. We never got out of our jammies. We played and laughed a lot. I never sent him up for a nap because I kept thinking he might poop and we could go to the playground and so the time just marched on until it was suddenly dinnertime.
I was shocked, I have to tell you. I am a great lover of nap time and have been ever since his newborn days. I rarely napped with him (as I was instructed to do) and instead spent it online, desperately reconnecting with the outside world. And since then, nap time has always been my “me-time”, some days barely able to get him into the crib fast enough. Lately, though, it’s been more sporadic. He still will sleep a solid 2-3 hours if I put him in bed, but more often if we don’t make it or if his nap is cut short, he manages — and so do I.
This makes it easier to understand why people start having second kids when their firsts are about 3. It’s getting easier.