Super special bed

This morning, as I was arranging my dish towel so that it lined up precisely with the edge of the counter, so I could start doing the dishes, I was simultaneously prepping Lakeland for naptime.

Prepping consists of me saying stuff like, "Hey LL, when you wake up from your nap, do you want to go to the park, or the pool?"

Today, she yelled out "POOL", then paused briefly before launching into a long diatribe about how she can't sleep, mommy, can't sleep, no, no, not tired, etc.

And then, because I like to try to reason with her, because I like to talk in circles and then pull my hair right out of my head, I asked her why she couldn't sleep.

Her response, simply put, was "I don't like my bed."

In a moment of brilliance, or stunning stupidity, I told her that I could fix that problem for her, and make her a super special bed.  Then, as I had no way to back up this remark, and no clever ideas in my back pocket, I wished I would think before making empty promises.  She was halfway down the hall, waiting expectantly for me to transform her bed, as I was reached for a spontaneous, miraculous plan.

Stalling for just a moment, I sat Lakeland down on my bed and told her I had to get her surprise ready, then grabbed a stack of tissue paper and a roll of tape from my closet before pulling the door closed behind me.

Low and behold, in 3 minutes, I had tissue papered the rails of her bed, creating not only a "Hey, it's like a giant present that you get to sleep in" bed, but also the ideal environment for a toddler to make a gigantic, ripped into tiny shreds, paper mess.  But as I sit here, writing and drinking coffee, I feel quite sure that I created for my daughter her own little miracle.  And if not, who cares?  I'm sitting here in quiet, writing and drinking coffee.

Now, if I could just figure out where she's getting all of these weird OCD tendencies and odd neuroses...