This Was Not In the Brochure

Lilly Tomlin had that line about how the doctor prescribed Ritalin for her 'hyperactive twins,' and she wouldn't dream of giving drugs to her children, 'but it sure helps when I take it myself.'

When they're selling parenthood, they don't disclose what truths are uttered in jest. Being on my own with the kiddos I didn't take my clonazepam at bedtime. It's good at keeping my REM behavior disturbance in check, which makes it safer for Frau Lobster to sleep in the same bed. It's also good at making a Lobster sleep through a named storm system.

A few years of taking the stuff most of the time, I don't know about 'dependence' but when you're used to taking something that amounts to an 'off-switch' it takes longer to fall asleep. Chief Broom talks about (I think it's Seconal, though I don't recall if Kesey named it) the pills that the booby hatch hands out that don't make you sleep but make you blink out of existence until morning. It's not a barbiturate, but you predictably fall asleep with clonazepam.

But then when you're sole guardian of two kiddos, one with autism and epilepsy who's a flight risk, you don't want something that zonks you out. And when you had to full out sprint because she bolted in the parking lot of an Applebee's after dark the night before, it's also a challenge to be easy enough in your head to go to sleep even when you're tired.

I lucked out Friday night, Mo slept until 6:00, which got me five hours of sleep, really better sleep than what I get with the clonazepam, probably more productive REM cycles and so on. Still five hours is less than Lobsters require.

You'd think after the taxing day that followed (the eight hours I spent at the office on Saturday while the girls hung with my in-laws was like a vacation within the day), I'd fall asleep straight away. But no such luck.

I finally succumbed to the Sand Man at 1:00 or so, I think. I thought I wanted a few stiff drinks and some Seconals so I could sleep in the Valley of the Dolls, but really, I just wanted to know that someone besides me would wake up and notice if Mo got up and started raising hell. At 3:00, Mo got up. For the day. I tried telling her it was still night time and going through the bedtime ritual.

'Night-night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite. Nighty-noodle. Time to get your beauty rest, Princess. I love you little Honyock. Midwest Rock Lobsters.'

Two minutes later, the child was screaming through the house again. After a half hour or so of repeating this nonsense, I despaired of convincing her it was really still the middle of the night.

To give you an idea of how it's gone, this pathetic post has taken me over an hour and a half to hack out on Frau Lobster's laptop. Mo's been setting new records on Time Outs Earned. She's pissed that Mom isn't here, and her main entertainment is trying to inspire me to yell, something I've been trying to break myself of.

Yelling does no good, and at her last parent-teacher conference they asked about why she was spontaneously shouting, 'NO, NO, NO!' and 'DON'T YOU EVER, EVER!!!' I've (relatively calmly) had her in the time-out chair at least seven times today. Puts me in mind of the Army recruiting ads I remember from my childhood about how the Army does more before breakfast than most people do all day. Part of autism is that facial expressions and tone-of-voice are blind spots. As near as I can tell, when I have a fit, it's entertaining to Mo. Which means that even if my ranting is meant to be an ersatz shock-collar, it's really just positive reinforcement.

At the moment, I think a respite has come in the form of PBS Kids. The Propaganda Broadcasting Scam can have their tax subsidy if it keeps toys from being flushed down toilets, whole bottles of hand soap from being poured out, and so on. If PBS could get her to use toilet paper instead of clothing without hand-over-hand supervision, I'd even forgive them for their non-children's programming, as wretched as it tends to be.

Bet you didn't know that frozen fish sticks are best served straight from the freezer, dipped in faux maple syrup. At least, that appears to be Mo's assessment. No harm in it, if I can get her to quit using the clean laundry for napkins.

I hesitate to actually post this now that I've written it. It probably sounds like I'm whining (or posting from the Sixth Circle of Parenthood). And I can't imagine that I do my best writing on two hours of sleep and an overdose of Wrathful Adrenaline.