Growing up, each of my children knew there was one sacred hour in our house: rest time.
I couldn’t call it nap time because, for reasons known only to the Lord, I was chosen to mother those children – the ones who stopped napping the moment they could walk. The ones who were somehow fueled entirely by air, chaos, and destruction. The ones who, despite refusing naps, still melted down by 4:00 p.m. every. single. day.
Meanwhile, I used to sit around wondering what magical potion other mothers were giving their four and five-year-olds who still peacefully napped every afternoon.
My son quit napping at eighteen months. Eighteen months.
This was the same child who lived in the zero percentile, survived mostly on goldfish crackers and stubbornness, and somehow possessed the energy of a marathon runner. I remember lying in bed one night genuinely asking my husband if there was any chance this child had been switched at birth because none of it made sense.
My oldest daughter quit napping at eighteen months too. When I finally accepted that she simply was not going to sleep anymore, I panicked. I truly didn’t know how a mother was to survive without those precious two hours in the middle of the day.
Nobody prepares you for that moment in motherhood – the one where you realize you still have hours left in the day…but your sanity has already clocked out.
So I did what many tired mothers before me have done:
I improvised.
I put a childproof handle on Ella’s door and gave her one simple instruction:
“You stay in your room until I come get you.”
And honestly? It worked beautifully. Every afternoon she played quietly in her room for two hours while I regrouped, folded laundry, drank reheated coffee, or simply sat in silence trying to remember who I was.
I thought I was a parenting genius.
So naturally, when my son stopped napping at eighteen months, he received the same “rest time” treatment.
“You stay quiet until I come get you.”
Oh, he stayed quiet all right.
What I discovered, however, was that while most children might spend quiet time reading books or playing with toys, my son preferred a more… artistic approach.
For two straight weeks, I would open his bedroom door after rest time only to discover that he had removed his diaper and created what can only be described as human-feces-based interior decorating.
Every. Single. Day.
Each afternoon I would convince myself:
He learned his lesson.
He won’t do it again.
Put the carpet cleaner away.
And every afternoon I was wrong.
Eventually, in a moment of exhausted brilliance… or complete desperation…we introduced what became known as “the special belt.”
Three rounds of duct tape around the diaper.
We told him Superman wore a special belt too.
He loved it. Naturally.
And just like that, rest time was restored.
I once again believed I had conquered motherhood.
And then we had my youngest.
Sweet, smiling, beautiful Lily.
Who also stopped napping at eighteen months.
Of course she did.
At first, she excelled at rest time. She would happily chatter with her imaginary friend Rea, sing songs, play accordion and harmonica concerts from her bedroom, and quietly entertain herself for hours.
I even rewarded her with M&M’s for successful rest times (#thirdchild).
And then one afternoon I heard a loud crash.
I opened the door to discover she had somehow snapped the leg off her beautiful wooden table.
To this day, I still don’t understand how a three-year-old accomplished that.
A few days later, I went to grab a bathing suit from her dresser and discovered there was no drawer front anymore. She had somehow ripped the entire wooden front off and placed it neatly by the trash can.
“Don’t worry, Momma,” she told me. “I threw it away for you.”
Helpful.
Then came the day of the rice.
Rice covering the floor. Rice inside the vent. Rice absolutely everywhere.
At this point, I began asking my husband if perhaps her imaginary friend was less imaginary than we originally thought.
My son maintained that Lily was an alien with magical powers, and honestly, I was beginning to consider the possibility.
Then came the broken chaise lounge.
The missing cabinet door.
The paint chipped off the walls with tiny fingernails.
The curtain tieback that hung as a memorial to another rest time casualty.
And the strangest part? She was always happy.
Almost every afternoon I’d open her door to find her smiling, happy, usually half naked, and completely delighted with herself.
Motherhood has a funny way of humbling you, doesn’t it?
Before kids, I imagined myself being the kind of mother who had structured schedules, peaceful afternoons, and beautifully behaved children quietly resting on embroidered pillows.
Instead, I became the mom with duct-taped diapers, broken furniture, and a toolbox permanently stationed outside my youngest’s bedroom.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.
Because one day these loud, exhausting, chaotic years become the stories we tell around dinner tables. The stories that make us laugh until we cry. The stories that remind us…we survived.
So this Mother’s Day, to every mom who feels like she’s just barely holding it together – the mom reheating her coffee for the fourth time, hiding in the pantry for five minutes of silence, or improvising her way through another impossible day…
You are not failing.
Motherhood is sometimes about simply doing what you’ve got to do to make it through the day.
And it turns out, the years held together by duct tape and grace are the ones we end up treasuring the most.
