I don’t know where the tradition of a Rest in the middle of the day came from. In the land of the umbrella, there is no need of a temporal bolthole from the cruel midday sun. More’s the pity.
But I can trace the Rest back through three generations of my family, on the female side. Its provenance prior to this is lost in history. Who knows, sometime in the middle ages, maybe a wrinkled wise Shrewsday whispered the secret, behind a cap with lappets, to her daughter-in-law, about to join the clan by marriage.
My gracious grandmother took her rest, religiously, after lunch every day. As far as I know, she did it all her life, unless work dictated otherwise. She raised four children in an unfailingly middle class fashion in a large Victorian house in East Yorkshire.
Although as I child I can remember a row of servants bells on the ground floor near the scullery, I don’t think she had any help in the house. Just her husband, herself, four growing young people and a dog called Whisky.
So I can’t help thinking that a Rest, taken after the main meal of the day was done and dusted, would have been a lifeline. Shut the large echoing Victorian door. Instruct children to find toys, read books, create no mischief and simply have a little winding down time.
She passed the secret on to my mother, who in her turn educated her brood of four that the hour between two and three was sacrosanct.
I have clear memories of childhood Rests. It wasn’t a case of enjoying them, or not enjoying them: one simply concurred with the general Pause.
I’m not sure what went wrong when the secret, vouchsafed to me by so many generations, reached me and my brood.
I need my rest. I don’t get it on workdays or even weekdays during the term: but I am convinced some biorhythm or other reaches an all-time low roundabout 2pm. Without the adrenalin of work or deadlines to reach, I feel drowsy. I can only think of one thing, and that’s a soft, welcoming duvet.
When I wake 20 minutes later, life is good. The rest of the day, I would swear, is more productive. It’s a power nap, I tell myself. It also means I can stay up much later and watch the late film, although I agree that is a little counter-productive.
Summer holidays are the time The Rest is at its most essential. One needs a break from even the best kids.
So every day, after lunch, I lecture my offspring sternly.
This is Quiet Time, I intone. And that means quiet, calm activities. We talk in whispers or calm voices, I continue. I teach social skills. I know what I’m talking about here. We’re talking a small number of decibels and no high frequencies.
Then I go on to consequences.
Kids, I say, if I hear one squeak out of line- just one exuberant squawk of joy – it’s separate rooms. Felix will be banished to the top floor, Maddie to the bottom, not to meet again until the end of Rest.
I enquire whether my message is clear. Every day, I watch two faces try desperately to keep straight. Any sign of mirth could make Mummy talk for much, much longer.
And every day they pledge, as solemnly as is humanly possible in the circumstances, to rest quietly and with suitable decorum. Which is hard to do with with hysterical giggles already rising in one’s throat.
And every day, for some idiotic reason, I believe them.
Leaving the door ajar so the children are assured the Rest Police are monitoring their every action, I jump into bed and pick up my favourite book. It takes only a minute or so before I feel drowsy and drop off to sleep.
When one returns from unconsciousness, the first sense to return is hearing. I know this from my first aid courses, and also because I woke up from an operation once to hear a naughty surgical nurse being reprimanded because no-one knew I could hear. Immensely entertaining, even post-op.
So I lie there and after about two minutes, I partially resurface as the mirth begins. Squawks, shrieks, jumping and bumping, role playing and acting, all in Shrewsday-loud sopranos that can penetrate consciousness, as nothing else can.
But I’m still under the surface. I just can’t bring myself to transform from Rip Van Winkle to Mussolini in order to stop the shinanegans. I just want it all to go away. If I wait for long enough it will subside.
But of course it doesn’t. It builds to a crescendo. Just occasionally my inner Italian Dictator does emerge and I get up and stomp in and shout and wave my arms a lot.
Now with anyone except my children, this would have an effect. I am renowned for my firm-but-fair border-defining style of child care. Lots of love, and lots of boundaries.
My children have had a lifetime to analyse my style and ruthlessly exploit any loopholes. And they do.
So my demonstrative reaction to their high jinks does have an effect, for as long as it takes me to get back to my duvet. By which time the party is back in full swing.
My mother came to stay during the week, just for a day. Her quiet time, a sacred tradition passed on by her mother-in-law, was ruined; because I appear to have lost my grip on the silent aspect of the Rest ethic.
So I’m on the lookout for solutions which don’t include manacles. Answers on a postcard please.
12 thoughts on “Rest”
All this talk of Rest reminds me of a tattoo spotted written across the back of a delightful youngster we shared a cruise ship with for the last two weeks. It wasn’t the sentiment so much as the spelling that made me smile. It simply proclaimed “Sleep when your dead”. Magic!
Lots of post holiday Shrewsday blogging to catch up with now …
Ah, the optimism of the young. I think Mad and Felix might agree with your t-shirted friend, Miff:-) Welcome back. Missed the cyberpresence of your family mightily:-)
So if maddie and Felix reach that crescendo by themselves, heaven help you when you have the princesses there as well!
Ah, well, when the princesses come along I don’t even try. Although they’re fabulous kids and much better behaved than Mad and Felix when they’re in the 2-3 slot….they still believe the bluster I think:-)
See you tomorrow…
Love this post, Kate 🙂 It brings back memories of our Mom’s afternoon Rest, which used to drive us crazy as all we wanted to do was jump in the pool (very South African). The explanation was always that lunch had to be properly digested before we could swim. One of my distinct aspirations for adulthood was to swim immediately after lunch whenever I felt like it. Needless to say, I now prefer to snooze!
Oh, thank God, someone else who naps after noon! I’m not sure how many people out there do it these days, but it is one of the great luxuries of my life. I don’t get too attached to posessions but I am very greedy about my time.
Ha, too funny again. I was also raised with the custom of rest (and can vouch for Naomi’s comment; South African mothers don’t allow swimming after lunch) and my Saturday and Sunday snoozes are legendary in my family.
Good to hear,Cindy. I shall be passing the tradition on, but I just need to invent a volume button.
I laughed out loud, kate.
I was there in the middle of the squeaks, bumps, small rushes.
Since I was occupying the room where the family played, the kids were just outside the door from time to time.
What a great little pantomime.
Unless you’re trying to sleep….:-)
My afternoon Rests have gone the way of the Dodo. One would think in this country of murderous summer heat, everyone would adopt the midday Rest. But no. And I was made to feel guilty for “sleeping in the afternoon” except at Christmas lunch when, having eaten until we can’t move, everyone lounges around pretending to watch a seasonal movie on television. What no one realises is I was, and am, a much pleasanter person to be around, and I sleep better at night too, when I have Rested after lunch 🙂
Don’t let it go, Kate.
Just the right words at just the right time as always….thank you, Liz, I’ll dig my heels in and buy some soundproofing….