Memoir excerpt

Orchestra of bedtime

I conduct the orchestra of bedtime, bathing Ann and Little Man while George puts on his PJs. He brushes his teeth as I dress Ann and then Little Man in their respective PJs. Little Man lets out squeals of protest as I rub lotion on his back and arms, which seems to do little for his eczema, dry patches stubbornly itching near his elbow. We pile onto his bed for storytime, and I read each story they bring to me.

George and Ann pick something different while Little Man holds steadfast to Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. I understand singular obsession and comply without comment. George climbs up to his bed on the top bunk to read his own book while Ann nestles next to me, OK with hearing about Mike Mulligan and Mary Ann again. She will correct me if I skip a word, or a sentence, and adds her own commentary on the actions of the townspeople.

Afterward, I put her to bed in her room, and fetch George a glass of water before tucking Little Man in. He whispers to me, and as I bend down to hear, he wraps his arms around my neck and asks if I will sleep next to him. I let him get comfortable before taking my place on the edge of the bed, finding that one spot where my neck rests just right on the crook of the bed so it does not stiffen or ache. I stroke his hair as I did when he was a baby, listening to the sounds of the house, his breathing as it slows before a big sigh that precedes sleep. George snores quietly from above, and no sound emanates from Ann’s room. I will lay with him until he rolls away from me, then get up and tidy the house before my brother and his wife get home.

In Vancouver, I will read of his escapades on Facebook.

He is five, and pushes a kitchen chair into the small mudroom, removes my brother’s car keys from a row of keys before bolting out the back door. He makes it to the car in the garage, unlocks it and sits in the driver’s seat before anyone realizes where he has gone. For reasons I can only guess he has liked sitting in cars. I imagine he finds the texture of the leather soothing, and the silence engineered by metal and glass, comforting. I learn of his success in school, his continued progress on the developmental roadmap, increased self-awareness, kindness, tenderness, and the challenges of raising two normal, genius kids and one genius, autistic kid.

Half a continent apart, we’ll learn to grow into ourselves, balancing the desire to retreat into safety with the normalcy expected of a functioning human being. He is content in his methods of retreat, wired to ignore what he finds uninteresting. I struggle with my destructive retreats.