It is the last day of school. The last day of the last week of school. A week that has kicked my proverbial arse. Lordy, but I am tired. Today involved emotional farewells; yearbook signing (yes, I get a yearbook even though I graduated from high school in 1988. I only let the cool kids [read: the five kids I actually know] sign it.); a delivery of pizza for 400 people; 27 more calls from parents about parking for graduation although I sent them DETAILED information about this very topic months ago; and, in a particularly dramatic finale, a request to purchase a replacement leather bag for a student since her chemistry teacher had accidentally set hers on fire in class.
I am ready for my nap.
The truth is, though, that I take a nap on most days, even days when nothing has been set on fire. I go home, set the kitchen timer, lie down on the sofa, and sleep deeply for half an hour. Then I am prepared to go out and do things at night during what I like to think of as my real life.
My neighbors get up much earlier than I do and manage to stay up all day without too much difficulty. In their house, napping is reserved for the one family member who is not yet two years old. Nevertheless, in an attempt to get their toddler to stop yelling in the hall outside my apartment, or knocking on my door/rattling my doorknob, they tell her that she needs to be quiet because I am asleep. "Shhh," they tell her in French (the father is French), "Kari fait dodo." This is basically equivalent to "Kari go night-night." Now, clearly, they have chosen to say this because it is easier than explaining to a baby that one needs to hold it down out of respect for the neighbors, but the truth is that at around 5:30pm, I am very aware of her little voice on the other side of the wall saying, "Kari dodo? Kari dodo?" because she usually wakes me up.
Shhhh Sabrina. Kari fait dodo.