Nightmare Factories–Childhood Dreams and #Aspergers

Nightmare World

It’s three am. My son hollers from across the house, “Rest with meeeeee!”

He’s had another nightmare.

Tyoma’s sleeping mind conjures strange and spectacular horrors. In his dreams, bathtub drains have teeth and eat little boy fingers.  Lurid moons peep through his curtains with “frowns and smiles so tight it hurts to look at them.” Limbs detach themselves and ambulate to our basement for exercise.

Tonight, the kitchen trash became sentient.  Tyoma’s dream-self heard its irritable rustling a half a house away.  I rest with him and doze off until Papa wakes me at 7:00.

Most nights are like this.

Prior to last spring, Tyoma slept well, waking only when routines went awry. That May, his brain began cranking out bizarre dreams regularly.

Part of me wanted to high-five him–weird dreams are a rite of passage in our family. The other part offered its tenderest sympathies.

Nightmare FactoryMy childhood nightmare factory produced horrors similar to Tyoma’s.  In fact, my dreams resemble his so closely I suspect a genetic component.

My most frightening dream involved murderous dishtowels with superhuman strength. A pack of them stalked me in our living room, intent on smothering me.  When a ratty plaid terry towel flipped over the couch and found me cowering, I woke up screaming.

No alien or zombie filled movie will ever equal the terror of the evil dishtowels. Perhaps Tyoma and I fear the mundane turned sinister because we crave predictability. The unexpected petrifies.

As we weather Tyoma’s nightmare surge, I’d like to share how our family manages to sleep well despite frequent wakings.

Accept sleep disruption.  Nightmares peak for all children five to eight years old. Children like Tyoma who have autism and/or Tourette’s syndrome are more anxious and creative, causing intense dreams.   Dreams are to my six year old what diapers are to a baby, a natural part of his development.

Adjust the sleep environment. Most autistic children do not have the skills to unwind alone after a frightening dream, requiring someone to stay with them until they fall asleep.  Any way you can secure sleep is excellent, even if it seems peculiar.

A happy accident worked wonderfully for us: T kept rolling off his twin bed so we gave him the queen guest bed.  He now boasts two beds for nightmare recovery. A parent keeps him company as needed, either on the spare twin or next to him, according to need.  I don’t worry about where I sleep, so long as I do sleep and so does everyone else.  Each parent has a thousand waking, calm moments to teach a child independence. Let sleep be their respite.

Redirect fear. We do not discuss nightmares in the bedroom.  I give Tyoma a courtesy sentence to relate his nightmare, but I don’t let him elaborate. I distract with a snack, brisk walk, or story if he can’t stop talking. Children with OCD or autism easily get worrisome thoughts stuck, so I act quickly to prevent T from reliving his fear and losing an entire night’s sleep.

Use tools.  Some parents make “nightmare spray” or “monster traps” for their children. Others train their child to change the ending of their dreams. While Tyoma invents multiple nightmare fighting tools, he eventually asks, “What if it doesn’t work?” This frightening realization can swallow a child whole.  I advocate honesty and composure. We tell Tyoma, “You will wake up and someone will be with you.”  Sometimes we need to say this a few times, but it ends the conversation. Knowing he is safe and loved is the most powerful tool of all.

From my son
My Mother’s Day card.

 
Tyoma’s sleeping mind is as extraordinary as his waking one. One day, I will look back at the night he dreamed his eyes got stuck in one socket. I will recall our trips to the mirror, deep breathing, and reading fairytales until he fell asleep. I will cherish the moments we shared together when I was an all-powerful mother and conqueror of nightmares.
 
 


Roach Nightmare Protecting my son from sinister forces.
Autism and Empathy: The Yogurt Incident Kickstarter for my son’s nightmares.
The Monkey Shower Dream Processing confusion before our Tourette’s syndrome diagnosis.
The Circle of Life A strange dream for a preschooler.
The Red Frog An early nightmare.
Finger Dream Vanity vs. responsibility.

Short Night, Long Day

Last night E and I had insomnia. We took turns being awake and waking each other. I started my day feeling raw.

I kept busy, but felt drained and fragile.

Tyoma came home in a wonderful mood. His infectuous cheer was just what we needed to end the day on a happy note. Tomorrow I will be jolly and well rested.

 Good cheer, all.

Illustration from “Jim And The Beanstalk.” Textures: texturemate, and m. r. nelson.

The Kitty Speaks!

Meow

Kitty sleeps in my art room downstairs. We gated the former dining room by velcroing Tyoma’s deconstructed crib sides to the doorways. This sounds much worse than it looks. It looks as if we have snazzy custom wood gates.

Anyway, kitty sleeps away from us for her own health and safety. Cats have nocturnal moments incompatible with three light and grumpy sleepers. Nevertheless, meowing concerts sometimes wake me.

One reason kitty wakes me is  Tyoma. He is about 100% potty trained at night, but with the new school year, he has been shouting out for a potty escort. The shadows in the stairway spook him.

When I was a kid, my mom cured my hallway fears with a flashlight. If we tried that with Tyoma, he’d dismantle the flashlight and eat the bulb. So, the household ears are open at night for Tyoma.

The other reason kitty wakes us—she has perfected meowing “Mama.” A year ago, my Mom observed that kitty does a first-rate imitation of Tyoma’s “Mama!” I dismissed this offhand. My mistake. I recently noticed that the “ma-meowing” peaks at five in the morning. It jars me awake since it sounds enough like Tyoma to fool my sleeping brain.

Today was the third morning in a row she woke me with a thousand insistant meows. I wondered what kitty wanted. She had fresh litter, lots of food and a bowl of bottled water big enough to swim in.

At six, I dragged my cranky self downstairs. She rushed to the kitty gate, “Ma-meow? Meow, Meow?” I let her out. She ran half way across the kitchen and turned to see if I was following her. I followed her. She dashed into the downstairs bathroom. “Marr-rrow?” Aha. She wanted to show me how delicious the toilet water was. Sigh.

Next month, I am buying this.