I swear, new parents can be so competitive, always comparing what their babies did and when. “Susie walked at eight months.” (Yeah, right.) “Junior here was potty-trained at six months.” (And probably wet the bed till college, bless his heart.)

I’ve even heard moms comparing how fast they lost all their baby weight. “Would you believe I wore my pre-pregnancy jeans home from the hospital?” (Oh, I’m so happy for you… more pound cake?)

My favorite of these not-so-subtle contests by far is called, “How-old-was-your-little-darlin’-when-he-or-she-first-slept-through-the-night?” And I confess the reason I love it is because I’m usually the undisputed winner (some might say loser, but I prefer to stay positive).

Whenever I overhear one of these conversations, I try to horn right in. First, I listen sympathetically to their stories. (It took six weeks, you say? How positively dreadful! How did you ever survive?) Then I fish around, dropping hints until someone finally asks me to share with the group: How old were my little ones when that blissful day finally arrived?

Then, with as much nonchalance as I can muster, I reply, “Hmmm… let’s see… oh, that’s right: sixty-seven months.”

Folks, we have a winner! Ding, ding!

I get a big kick out of dropping that little bombshell, but sometimes it takes a minute or two to for people to absorb. Sixty-seven months? Is she kidding? They try to be polite, hoping that I am, in fact, joking. Then their compassion gives way to alarm. Am I a liar or a lunatic, they wonder? Or worse, a crazy broad who’s spawning a mutant strain of nocturnal babies. Run for your lives! It might be contagious!

During all those endless nights, I tried to use the time wisely, which mostly involved fantasizing about the day my girls would both be in school, as I planned to sleep for six months straight. The only drawback to my plan, as far as I could tell, being the fact that hibernation isn’t considered normal human behavior, and if you attempt it, some well-meaning yet meddlesome neighbor might just make a call to social services. So I settled for the next best thing — chronic napping.

Frankly, I’d choose a nap over just about anything… shopping, sex, even Krispy Kremes. I take that back… naps and Krispy Kremes are dead even. And actually, if I really tried, I bet I could scarf down a few K2’s while napping. (Which is why I pay one of my kids to hide the box — it’s in everyone’s best interest, especially my thighs.)

So I make an effort to squeeze a nap into each and every day, no matter what. Which is probably why I lost my job as an air traffic-controller. I’m kidding. It was all those cocktails that got me fired. (Note to self: when drinking martinis out of your coffee cup, skip the olives. Too obvious.)

One of the best things about naps — other than the actual sleeping, of course — is the dreams. They’re way better than the ones you get at night. In nap dreams, sometimes I can talk to animals. Sometimes I can fly. Always, I am a size 4. Nap dreams put you in touch with your limitless potential. You can crochet trendy sweaters out of dryer lint, for example. Or live in a mansion made of chocolate ganache and marshmallow fluff. Or be a Gucci-clad superhero saving the world from a hostile Amazonian celebutante who relies on a diet of human brains and media attention to fuel her diabolical plans for world domination. You get my point.

I hardly ever have nightmares during my naps, either. Except once during an unusually long nap, I dreamt my boss was screaming at me to pack my stuff and hit the road. Wait… that really happened.

Thirty (okay, ninety) short minutes later, I wake up feeling completely refreshed and ready to tackle the remainder of the day. You’d be surprised how much I can accomplish in fifteen or twenty minutes! Thoroughly rested from my nap, I feel ready to take on the world! I am invincible! I can do anything!

Except, of course, find the stinkin’ Krispy Kremes.