So I sleep pretty bad Monday night, my insomnia spiking up on me again like it always does when the weather gets hot. Daylight Savings Time and the weather are heartless, unforgiving bitches to me. Feel like crud all day, the way three hours of sleep make people feel, upset stomach, slightly nauseous, wrapped in fuzz that's a little too hot and coarse.
In spite of me living my life and therefore knowing my luck - no excuses not knowing where the story goes when you're the writer - I figure I'll pop some medicine before I go to bed. OTC stuff. And I do.
It doesn't work, of course, and I toss and for two or three hours. I couldn't tell, after the first hour it was an eternity of minutes. Finally my body falls asleep.
And two hours later our son comes into the room. "Water! Water!"
For those of you imaginary people who read this blog and my previous one, you may remember my son is autistic and nonverbal. If not, my son is autistic and nonverbal. His sleep pattern sucks as bad as mine does, although with him it's usually voluntary.
We're tired, I got my usual assortment of cats helping me do sadistic yoga while I sleep, so we both say "GET BACK TO BED!!!"
He does, complaining all the way. I toss and turn for another hour or so just to get a little more exercise in, finally remember it's ME, and I get up. Go see my son, he's still up and talking softly to himself. Tell him to go on in the living room and I'll get him some water. Feed the cats, get the water for the boy...and as I pass off the bottle, I realize he's quite warm.
100 degrees of warm, to be precise.
So he was probably sick and feeling bad when he came to me, and I, the loving protective caring father, snapped at him to go back to his room.
GREAT feeling. Seriously. Like sliding a long piano wire under your skin and having something acidic leak out on your guts.
So, yeah. Not a good day. He's got an app't tomorrow.