You're killing your father, Larry.

Except my child is not named Larry and I am not Larry's, er, well, Zachary's, father.

I could also title this, "Damnit, child, for the love of all things holy, please, just take a nap!"

I have never known a child more fickle when it comes to napping (and eating and playing and enjoying the company of others besides that of his momma, but for the purpose of this post, we're only going to be discussing napping) than my Baby Z. He has days where he naps like a champ. Clockwork - you could nearly set a watch by it. But those days are few and very, very far between. Because Baby Z., for all intents and purposes, is a catnapper. I don't know where he picked up this trait; I don't know if it's a genetic thing (and if it is, I am tracking down the developer of this particular gene and we are going to have words) or if it's a learned thing, but I can tell you it's a super freaking annoying thing.

Baby Z's catnaps last about 14 minutes. And it just so happens that 14 minutes is how long it takes to shower but not dry off, prepare a lunch but not eat it, complete the warm-up portion of a workout but not the workout itself. Do you see where I'm going with this? I get nothing done.

Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. From start to end, my day is a laundry list of unfinished tasks, showers, lunches, workouts, blog posts and chores. However, I do get a lot of Baby Z time.

(I'd tell you more about it but I'm on minute 12 right now and he's starting to stir. Not even kidding. I knew I should have eaten while I had the chance.)