Aspergers and spilt milk

Just…drifting…off…to…sleep. The day’s events are blurring, clear thought losing its sharp sides…drifting…drifting…

'Huuuurrh,' Ethan sighs, loudly. Then the duvet is ripped from the bed. A cold draught cuts across my body. I jolt into consciousness. Ethan stomps to the wardrobe and proceeds to pull out pyjama oddments. A few seconds go by. Still pyjama tops are flying from the shelf. Another loud sigh ‘Arrghh. I don’t have any long-sleeve pyjama tops.’ He jabs the words at me, agressive, irritated, as though I am somehow to blame for this current state of affairs.

I join in the sighing. I pull myself out of bed. Walk to the wardrobe. Within ten seconds I have located a long-sleeve pyjama top. I throw it at Ethan. Now it’s my turn to be aggressive, I launch into attack: ‘Why is it so difficult for you to look for anything properly? Looking means moving things around a bit, checking underneath stuff. Not just blankly staring at what is in front of you and, based on that, deciding that what you need isn’t there. Also, grow up. You’re like a child having a tantrum. You can’t find a long-sleeve top so you sigh, throw things around and shout at me. At midnight. What’s it got to do with me? And it’s utterly selfish of you to wake me up and rant just because you’re irritated.’ I’m fairly eloquent to say I’ve just been rudely torn back from the brink of sleep.

I get back in bed. Sigh again. Ignore Ethan's subdued ‘sorry’ – and am awake til 1am feeling annoyed and wound up. Ethan snores beside me.

The next morning I’m tired and grumpy. The kids don’t help matters. At 8.10am I have Coco pops all over the floor, Oliver covered in chocolate milk and devoid of breakfast, Ava prancing around the kitchen in her pants refusing to get dressed and Sam requesting Nutella on toast. I, having not had a moment to myself since waking up, am still in my pyjamas and we have to leave for school in 15 minutes.

I snap. I fling Oliver into the naughty room. Tell Ava to get dressed. She tells me not to be stressy. I snap again, smack her and send her to her room.

We’re late for school again. I wish I hadn't smacked Ava. I now have guilt to add to my repertoire of moods. Through it all I’m still blaming Ethan – he’s put me in a bad mood. His self—absorption and lack of empathy has led to me being tired and grumpy. My conclusion is that it is his fault that I have smacked Ava, shouted at Oliver and that we’re late for school again.

I’ve left the Coco pops on the floor for him to deal with when he’s home. The more concreted onto the floor they are the better.

Now who’s being childish?!

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