A Piper can sleep anywhere.  At almost any time of the day. Under most conditions. Napping is her religion, next to piperism, of course. As a baby, Piper was notorious for nodding off at impossible moments.  She once fell asleep on a bench in a noisy museum:

This afternoon we were cuddled up reading books in our bed, snow had just begun to fall outside, and Piper asked if she could close her eyes for a minute.  “Just for a second,” she promised.  As if her napping is a true burden to me.  “Wake me up in six minutes, okay?” How will I possibly fill my moments? Ten seconds later she was doing this:

Which looks a lot like when she used to do this in our bed on that same pillow:

When a Piper sleeps there is much to drool about. Her heavy breathing sounds like a prank call. The kid is out.  You can turn on the lights, talk in loud voices, and jump on the bed.  I know. Her Sissy has done it all.  Nothing wakes a Piper.

I require the appropriate amount of bedtime reading, a cup of chamomile, two ear plugs, an eye mask, and a fan for white noise to even think about sleeping. It’s not just that Piper doesn’t have to plan a lecture for tomorrow on the impact of feminist poetry as protest (I’ll bet my students will be riveted!), it’s that she’s wired completely different.  This moment, the one where she’s sleepy and happily cuddled up with her mom in bed, is the only one that exists.  She’s my little Buddha.  My mindfulness wake up call.  I could learn a lot from a Piper.