“Oh, no,” I thought, the words a silent whisper as my son poked my arm and laughed—a sound brimming with mischief.
By then, it had been two hours—two hours of trying to get him to take a nap. Two hours of bedtime routine, cuddles, and singing—all to no avail.
My heart pounded with anxiety as I moved to the living room, staring at the monitor as if it was the most interesting movie I had ever seen. Anxiously I watched, and began to pray feverishly, my gaze fixed on the screen.
“Oh, God. I have nothing left. Nothing I do is helping him, and if I let him get up now, the rest of the day is going to waste. He needs this rest so desperately, Lord. For his sake, and mine, please help us. Is anything too hard for you?”
I prayed feverishly for what felt like an eternity, a full thirty minutes of gnawing anxiety as I eyed the monitor.
