I hail from a lineage of nappers. Where I come from, naps are sacred.
Dad on the couch, his head boxed in by pillows – this is a staple image in the Sundays of my childhood.
Mom preferred the bedroom; her perfectly coiffed hair spread neatly on a crisp pillow case, so as to suffer little bed head as possible. Napping on her back, hands folded over her stomach, Mom always laid atop her neatly tucked covers with a throw blanket over her legs.
Where I come from, naps are never a waste of time. Nor a shameful indulgence.
A good night’s sleep is the culmination of a productive day.
But restorative naps are awash in light. They are stolen moments of sunshine useful for granting clarity to both mind and body. A nap with the shades drawn in a dark room is not a nap. It is a recipe for groggy headaches.
Summer naps in a shady hammock are dreamy. Fall naps are regularly on the couch with Sunday football in the background. And a crackling fireplace makes winter naps very cozy.
But, spring is superior napping season. A slightly warm breeze and soft light ebbs in through open windows; the sweet smell of damp earth mixed with freshly cut grass and the sound of songbirds sing you to sleep.
When you fall in love and marry your lifetime companion, rarely do you consider small things like naps. I didn’t. But when you’re raised in a napping culture, a spouse who does not appreciate this joyous ritual could be devastating.
Fortunately, Handsome also is a fan of the snooze. Never once has he suggested guilt on behalf of my naps, even when the sink is full of dishes and laundry heaps beckon.
It delights me to no end that I can impress my love affair with the nap upon my children. I hope they grow to cherish guilt-free rest, knowing when and how to use it wisely.