The Moon and the Stars

Jill sat reading in the good chair in our living room while I tried to coax Alex to pick up the sheets of his homework that had fallen on the floor. She sure seemed to be studying her book; Alex wasn’t exactly flying into the task.

“Can you help me here, Jill?” I asked, frankly too lazy to stir off the couch after just getting home from work.

She did, but added, “I’m steamed at you for letting me get up for Alex last night.”

“Why didn’t you wake me? You always have before.”

“Oh you were just SLEEPING!” She holds her hands to her cheek in prayer position and closes her eyes with elaborate sarcasm, then dives back to the book.

Jill and I split what we once called “night duty” (in blended tones of reverence and dread): The one who had to get up first in the morning didn’t have to get up to handle Alex if he woke up at night. So why then, somebody ask her, did Jill let me sleep? I would’ve gotten up with no more snapping at Alex and grumbling to the universe than normal.

What is normal in a sleep-deprived life? “Lack of sleep makes everything impossible” Jill has said, and it’s true. Can’t think, really, can’t plan. Once solid ideas fragment as you stumble through your day jet-lagged though you’ve flown nowhere.

I think Alex’s sleeping is getting better. Now it may a solid week before we hear his footfalls through the dark, like those of Mr. Marbles in that “Seinfeld” episode in which Jerry tries to sleep in Kramer’s apartment. Alex also used to stay awake for two hours or more overnight, giggling and laughing. (Granted, better than crying and moaning, but two hours?! Was that the best we were going to get to say in life?)

“You CANNOT yell at Alex in the middle of the night!” Jill has said. “I was HOURS getting back to sleep!”

“You’ve yelled at him too in the middle of the night!” I reply.

“But not like that!” she says.

No: The difference was I had to listen to it when you were yelling, trying to get back to sleep. That’s the difference.

Nonetheless, I opt for the hiss, SnakeDad urging his autistic boy back to bed at 2:23 by the green numerals on our bedroom clock.

We give him Melatonin (”God’s gift” as one parent of an autistic child once called it). We used to do two capsules at bedtime; lately Jill has tried one in the late afternoon, a second at bedtime. Out of sympathy, I guess, I take it, too.