Midlife Irrationality

I like to think of myself as a relatively sane person with occasional, momentary lapses in rational thought. Those I blame on the pervasive lack of sleep that has become a normal part of life since I became a mother. When my children were babies it was understandable that I would be somewhat scatter-brained. No one can function normally on the constantly interrupted napping that we moms are forced to endure until our kids begin to sleep through the night. My son, my first-born, granted me the privilege of nighttime peace when he was 8 months old; my daughter, when she was 12 weeks old. That was 3 years ago. Unfortunately, my mind had been trained to awaken every 2 hours, and I am still doing it to this day.

Last night we forgot to turn on our daughter's monitor. At 3:00 a.m. she came into our room, carrying her favorite blanket, and sobbing. This was the first time she had ever managed the eighteen steps downstairs alone at night, and she was hysterical. She climbed into bed with us and snuggled close for comfort. For once, I didn't mind being kept awake by a little darling. It was nice to have her close to me.

Perhaps it is stress. Maybe anxiety. For a while it was hot flashes (thank goodness that phase didn't last long.) Lately, though, I have no explanation other than my role as mother dictates that I must be alert to my children's needs 24/7. It is impossible to forget that role, even as I sleep. Why doesn't the snoring man sleeping next to me have the same problem? Because he leaves the house every morning for a grown-up world, a day of enlightened problem solving, which he then leaves behind again when he steps off the train at 6 p.m. That alone justifies in my mind the right - no, the obligation - to kick him in the shin at least once a week and make him go check the child who is calling for a glass of water at 11:30 p.m. Why should I have all the fun?

When I really think about it, the most likely reason I can't sleep at night is a combination of all of these explanations plus one more: our family is surviving the turmoil caused by autism. I say "surviving" because that is exactly how I intend for others to see us, and it is what I expect of my family as we deal with each mini-crisis and go on.

So many people tell me I really handle it well, that I seem very together considering what I deal with every day. That is true in some respects. Kids like my son, who has Asperger's Syndrome, crave order and predictability. For the most part, I have always been fairly well organized. (It's confession time: I think in outlines - yes, Roman numerals and everything!) That's how I handle a crisis - I break it down into parts and organize the hell out of it. It's a characteristic of a good manager, and that is what I am.

On the other hand, so often I am seething on the inside, wondering if my son - or my daughter - is pushing my buttons with his tantrums or are there neurological/sensory reasons he becomes hysterical and cannot calm down. Then there is the extreme guilt which follows when I guess incorrectly and punish him for refusing to get ready for bed when he was actually freaked out by a faint whistling sound the air conditioner was making that none of the rest of us heard until later. It is mentally and physically exhausting.

The strange things is, I think he realizes that sometimes it is just too much for me. How? I have no clue. He has difficulty interpreting the tone of my voice, and I have to explain to him when his behavior is making me angry. Much later, when all has been forgotten, he will hug me and say, "Mom, I love you" for no apparent reason. Or he will giggle at something silly and simply melt my heart. I wish my mind could replay those moments every night, all night long, so I would be motivated to sleep for several hours in a row. It would be nice to be the last person to awaken some morning, feeling refreshed and ready for a great day. Some day, perhaps.