They'll come back, right? Please say they'll come back.
Ack! I hate being in this place where I want so desperately for Owen to sleep. A sleep schedule seems to be one of those things that the harder you chase it the more elusive it becomes. I'm the goof thwacking face-first into the mud, and Owen's nap is the greased pig.
If and when I get him to sleep in the afternoons, the lengths I'll go to keep him that way are ridiculous. I stuff a towel under his door as an extra buffer from outside noise and light, and of course there are blackout shades, a noise machine and two fans inside his room serving the same purpose. I put two more closed doors between Owen and the cats and me, turn off the phone ringer, don't run the dishwasher, washer or dryer, don't flush any toilets and even turn off the thermostat because it's right outside his room and makes this awful clicking noise when it cycles on. But you can only control so many variables.
On Wednesday, some teenage boy (with hopes of being validated by the car he drives) went roaring up our street less than an hour into Owen's nap.
On Thursday, the yard guys showed up at minute 55.
And today I have no idea what happened to wake Owen up the first time. I do know that I nearly had him to sleep the second time only to be thwarted by Coby Cat's beating on the hall door. I was so angry I vowed to kill the creature and have him made into a Davy Crockett hat.
Maybe it's a growth spurt or a new tooth or the result of our recent travels. Who knows? I could drive myself nuts trying to figure it out. In the meantime I'll do my best to act like it doesn't bother me.
And hopefully stay clear of the mud.