Autism is not for sissy's

2:30 a.m.
Silly Bear is awake standing by my bed clapping.  I sit up and smile. Silly Bear can read my face and anything but a smile typically elicits tears and wailing.  I am now programed for smiles even at 2:30 in the morning. 

Inside, I am not smiling.  Inside, I am grimacing, wishing there is an easy way to get Silly Bear back to sleep.  I roll out of bed and hug Silly Bear.  I take him to the kitchen for a drink.  He wants juice.  There is none in the refrigerator.  I try to convince him that water is the best thing to drink in the night.  He begins to melt, his face distorting into something resembling an extreme muscle spasm.  The sound starts from his toes and works its way up.  Before he can stop, drop and scream, I interject another option for a drink.  There is juice in the pantry, it's just not cold.  He grins and wipes the tears off his face with his sleeve.

I open the pantry door, quickly take out the juice before Silly Bear spies something he might want to eat.  I put ice in his cup and fill it halfway with juice.  He takes one sip and puts it down.  He then begins the question game; each question louder than the one before.  "Why do I need to drink juice?"  Why do I need to have ice?"  "Why is it dark?"  "Why do I have to wear pajamas to sleep?"  "Why is the refrigerator cold?"  What color is juice?"  "Is the baby crying?"

3:00 a.m.
Silly Bear's questions disturbed the baby so now there are three of us awake.  Now, just for the record, I am extremely proud of Silly Bear's communication skills.  If it weren't for Becca, Silly Bear would not be able to ask questions.  So, where is Becca anyway?  Maybe I should call her and thank her for the hard work she has done with Silly Bear.  Oh, it's now 3:00 o'clock in the morning and she is sleeping peacefully in her own home.  That, and she refuses to give me her phone number.  I digress.

I quickly scoop Silly Bear up and carry him back to his bed.  I tuck him in, say prayers just like we did the first time we went to bed and tell him to stay in the bed so I can get him a surprise in the morning.  I hurry down the hall to the baby's room.  Baby Bear is standing there looking at me with blanket in hand.  I gather him into my arms and sit in the big comfy rocker to lull him back to sleep with my sleepy, off key version of the Veggie Tale song. 

3:25 a.m.
The toilet flushes and I hear small footsteps in the hall.  My mind is alert now, knowing that Silly Bear is headed to my bed and I am not there.  I gently toss the baby back into the crib.  (He's not asleep anyway.)  I begin calling Silly Bear's name, first quietly, then louder.  Waking the rest of the children was not my concern at this point, it was waking the neighbors if I didn't get to Silly Bear before he begins his rendition of a human being mauled by an angry Siberian tiger.

Once Silly Bear is assured that I am here and not leaving him, he and I go together back to his bed.  We are only there to retrieve his pillow, blanket and the collection of rocks he took to bed with him.  Hand in hand we walk down the hall like we're on our way to the park.  As we enter the living room, I explain to Silly Bear that the baby is awake and I must get him out of his bed so he will stop crying.  Silly Bear plopped on the couch to wait.

3:30 a.m.
With Baby Bear, his blanket and pacifier, I hollow out a place on the couch beside Silly Bear.  I thank God for the recliner built into my couch, pull the lever and lean back.  The baby snuggles down on one side and Silly Bear on the other, complete with a large comforter, pillow and hand full of rocks.
I reach for the remote, turn on Dora, help Silly Bear get settled and hope they both go back to sleep before I do.

4:45 a.m.
I wake to my arm throbbing from lack of circulation coupled with the odd position it is in.  Though I was disoriented from lack of sleep, I knew something wasn't right about the situation.  The baby was asleep, thank goodness, but under Silly Bear's comforter was nothing but a pillow.  Silly Bear and the rocks were gone. 

I listened.  Nothing.  I quietly called, "Silly Bear."  No answer.  Maybe not as fast as greased lightening, but fast for an old lady with very little sleep and a baby in her arms, I returned Baby Bear to his bed and went in search of Silly Bear.

4:50 a.m.
I discovered Silly Bear in the hall bathroom with the door closed and locked.  Using my skills learned from my grandson's "How to Pick Lock's for Dummies" manual and a small tool, I opened the door.  There he stood, like a research scientist deep in thought, on the brink of discovering a cure for the common cold.  His test tubes (medicine syringes from the kitchen), flasks (various cups and glass goblets also from the kitchen), tools including spoons, straws, thermometer, sticks rocks and a small sword, and his ingredients: toilet paper, two kinds of toothpaste, water, juice (bet you guessed that one), shampoo and something very blue.

5:00 a.m.
After observing Silly Bear for the better part of ten minutes, searching my mind for words that were appropriate, I said, "Wow!  You put in  lot of hard work here but now we have to clean it up."  That is a lie.  Surely you don't think I am that good of a mother.  Honestly, I said, "Silly Bear,  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"  I wiped him off, threw a towel in the floor to soak up the liquid I would have to clean up in a few hours and helped Silly Bear change into clean pajamas.

5:20 a.m.
Silly Bear and I snuggled down in my bed this time.  Power Rangers are on the TV and I doze off hoping to catch another hours sleep before the day starts.  My alarm went off at 6:30 a.m.  Before I could open my eyes, I hear, "Time to get up Mom.  Can I have my prize now?" 

Such is the night life of the mommy whose child is affected by autism.