Autism & Bed Hopping

What a weird start to the day.

My husband is away for a few days, so I have what feels like a huge king-sized bed to myself.  Without James, it feels like trying to sleep in a ten acre field with no ditches.

I have legitimate worries.

I mean, what if I roll over the mattress edge and tumble endlessly into oblivion?  Everyone knows that physics changes after sunset and the floor either turns into lava or an eternal, gaping abyss (which maybe explains why Cheerful Nietzsche kept banging on about them.  What a weirdo).

What if the monsters who live under my bed sense James's absence and don't obediently stay where they belong? What if they spread me on a cracker and enjoy a delicious Jean snack while carelessly spreading crumbs all over my freshly laundered sheets?  

Ngl, it's the sheets thing that annoys me most in this scenario.

Anyway, last night I harnessed all my Big Girl coping mechanisms to manage my concerns.

I took myself off for an early night with my new book, and was asleep by 10pm.  Yanno, like a human.

Then the party started.

I woke, startled, at midnight because I wasn't used to falling asleep like a normal person.  My limbic system decided that sleeping was a trap and screamed at me not to do it.  Ever.

But I must have dozed, because at around 2am my fun nightly routine of chasing Finian back to his own bed began.  It's like playing ping-pong in the dark with a giant, cuddly steam-roller.  

Also, that kid gives zero fucks about lava or monsters.  Autism gives him superpowers like that.

This continued until I awoke at one point to find him IN my bed, accompanied by two mobile phones (one stolen from me) and one iPad (stolen from his sister).  

My bed suddenly felt less like a vast prarie and more like the confines of a (fabulous) battery chicken cage.  Perspective is everything.

My bed-robbing, steam-rolling son was going nowhere.  By 5am my arsenal of autism sleep strategies had as much meaning as the cave drawings of a stoned neanderthal.  I conceded defeat, went to his room, and crawled into his single bed.

When I woke, I had NO idea where I was.

Not one.

And not in a "Whoa! What a wild night!  Who's bed have I woken up in after a crazy party with beautiful people???" kinda way.

Definitely more in a "what the actual fuck, I can't remember my name" kinda way.  It didn't help that I woke mid-dream in which I was wheelchair bound, trapped in a hospital staffed by faceless nuns.

I really wish I could teach Dis-Orientation in a Map Reading course.  I'd be brilliant.

I'm not sure there's enough tea in the world to recalibrate my tenuous grip on reality.  But maybe reality's over-rated anyway.

sleep hygiene be trippin