The Littlest Hypochondriac

While I resolutely deny that Lili may soon be approaching the age of no naps, her sleep cycle has been on the rocks for the past few weeks. There have been a series of daytime nap protests, or stubbornly late afternoon snoozes that result in missed dinners, postponed baths, and general prime-time crabbiness. We're also becoming well-versed in bedtime delay tactics.

"Mommy, no go downstairs (sad face)."

"Mommy, rub my back".

"Mommy, sing a song".

 "Can I have a snack?" (Or, the only slightly less popular but still commonly referenced "Mommy? I'm thirsty.")

"ONE. LAST. TIME."

The delay tactic to end all delay tactics, though, naturally involves the potty. Because potty training doesn't hate me enough, it's decided to invade the *one* precious hour I have each night between putting Lili to bed and putting myself to bed, when I can clean house unabated, broom in one hand, freshly poured glass of wine in the other, cruise the internet, knit, or, if it's been a particularly rough day, zone out on the couch with Mama and watch the latest episode of Parenthood, preferably without the mental cringe of hearing a tiny voice call out from the top of the stairs...."Mommy, I pooped".

And you know what? Nine times out of ten, she has. Well played, little babe. Well. Played.

Usually, though, once we've managed to cross the nightly delay tactic hurdle, Lili is down for the count, not to be heard from again until, usually, 8:00 a.m. or 8:30 a.m. the next morning. So it was unusual for her to wake up around 11:00 p.m., which happened unexpectedly a few nights ago. From the first muffled cry my Mommy instincts told me that all was not right in Lili land, and I immediately flew in to her room, back of hand drawn for more efficient forehead temperature sensing. She's had an off-and-on runny nose for the past couple of weeks, nothing serious, but I could tell immediately that the congestion woke her up, and now she was negotiating the twilight purgatory of fatigue, dull awareness, and general restlessness. I picked her up and began rocking her in the chair, and it was clear that she just couldn't get comfortable. We negotiated positions, paced across the room, rubbed backs, and the crying continued. After a few minutes, Mama came upstairs to check on us. As I held Lili and rocked she slowly began to calm down, and Mama leaned over in the dark and whispered, in complete seriousness and with brow furrowed in grave concern, "Do you think she has appendicitis?"

Lili, I apologize in advance for the life of hypochondria that will undoubtedly plague you. Between Mama and your Papou, you never stood much of a chance.