I have not taken one today, though the thought of a nap right now is quite appealing. My head sinks into cool pillowcase that warms up quickly under my expectant cheek. Within seconds I am transformed from reality to dreamland as the billowing slate clouds look upon me through the window. Or my eyes slip closed as I lie on my wicker loveseat in the shade of my back porch on a 93 degree day.
Naps have been my remedy. When I was 17 and suffered from daily migraines, I would bury my face in the crook of my family’s living room couch and let the total darkness heal me. (Fortunately, these headaches were temporary.)
At times, naps have eluded me. When my first child was a newborn, she barely slept. The only sleep I was able to get would be classified as naps, but it was as if my body only hovered over the bed, never quite hitting it. And my sleep was dreamless. (In the end, she became an excellent sleeper.)
Naps have been a bond. Just before my second child outgrew them, we had an after-lunch routine. We would climb our stairs like Everest, paddle across our landing in a canoe and find shelter in a deserted cabin also known as his room. He didn’t nap without this ritual, and I ended up falling asleep next to him. We both have lovely memories of this time.
Now I work from home and have access to naps more often than ever, but I rarely take one. They are best when spontaneous.