You’d think a 7.3 mile walk would be enough. To calm them. To make them sleep. To let me catch my breath.

Will apparently needed maybe 10 miles or 15 miles of walking, because at 11:30 pm on Saturday night, we did that cat and mouse game he loves to do. When the hubby was snoring, I heard the pitter-patter of someone attempting a midnight snack-raid. Shooing him back, I fell asleep with the door open and the hallway light waking me all night. Not exactly restful. In truth it only took 3 or 4 bellowed scoldings of “time for bed!” – and only one furious hop from my bed to scour the hallways for intruders – before he tired of the game.

The damage was done to my always fractured sleep, though. The fun continued Sunday, CVT Day 49. As anyone who knows me knows, I need my morning inner sanctum. I consider it rude beyond belief that when I wake at 5:45 am for an hour or so of uninterrupted writing and peace, like little birdlings craning their neck for Mom to drop in a worm, my sons chirp in seconds, eager to be near me.

Usually Jeff is manageable, and I can do what I need to do which is usually write and read. Today he slammed doors – his OCD meaning every cabinet, door and soft-soap container has to be neatly aligned. Of course this woke Will. By 6 am both of them were up, down, pants on, pants off, and after 90 minutes attempting to get them self-engaged so I could do something on my own – I had to shake the reinforcements out of snoring-sleep with the insistent “it’s your turn.”

Mom’s sleep deprivation is so mild in the scheme of COVID-19 autism family dramas I feel bad detailing it. Yet night on night, especially when mixed with my own sleep issues, exhaustion grows wearying. I hate, hate, hate being the one who’s always adjusting my wants and needs, as if I don’t matter.

We eked out a decent day – church-on-TV in the morning, late showers, even later walk due to some other hubby priorities that had to get done. We even cut the boys hair – Paul doing more than me, but who cares. Sporting their bad haircuts, they smile and tolerated more than I expected with a makeshift cape made of a black trash bag with a cut-out neck hole, arms straight-jacketed by their sides.

All’s well that ends well as they say. Except one of these days the Mom’s fractured life is going to catch up to her. Mark my words.