Army

Sometimes in the opening minutes of a nap attempt, you sit downstairs and listen to Lyla cry on the baby monitor, trying to decide when or if to intervene. For Julie, the defining moment is when she hears the thwap of a binky hitting the floor.

If this happens and Lyla's clearly upset about it, I'll run upstairs, rub her head, put the binky back in her mouth, and leave. Julie, on the other hand, tiptoes upstairs; then, once she reaches the hallway outside the nursery, she hits the deck as though she's heard enemy fire. Next, she army-crawls to the nursery door and peeks her head around in order to do recognizance on Lyla's position in the crib. Once Julie determines that Lyla won't see her, she inches forward into the nursery, still on her belly, finds the binky, and lobs it into the crib like it's a grenade. Then, like a ninja, she's gone.

I wonder if Julie's weirdo genes are dominant.