My kids were never good sleepers. Children with high functioning autism rarely are.
But last night something strange was afoot.
I can sense it before it happens—before the audible shuffle and bump. My spidey senses, that with which we mothers are all graciously endowed after growing people between our innards, had me dead asleep one second, to ready to sprint the next. Under the door, a bar of light seeped in. I looked at the clock.
He’s sneaky, my Noah. More than once we’ve found him hiding from us, thinking it funny to ignore our summoning. Sometimes, he hides in his room. Sometimes, it’s in a closet. Once, it was five houses down, in the back of a neighbors car. I’d feel better if we could microchip him.
