He whirls from reach and shrieks at the slightest touch — untouchable from the youngest age

In the Beginning: Land of astonishing emptiness. Barren black fixed above fathomless abyss. G-dly Presence hovering over the water’s depths.
Blank eyes stare from the inside out. Suffused in dark humor, a hint of impenetrable, deep distance. Nary a fragile spark of life shines forth. And on the outside? Explosions, endless explosions. Incessant chatter, incessant noise, screaming, screaming, screaming. See him here, see him there, a little life that’s moving, moving. Too short, too long, too fast, too slow, being, being? — hardly. Repeat, repeat, repeat, in the whirl of this darkening storm.
The best definitions describe frequency, intensity, duration — and patterns. But why don’t we start, and I’ll let you judge.

My inner clock tells me it’s the middle of the night. And besides, it’s pitch-black outside. I turn to take in my son’s shadowed form and a squint of the glowing clock that shows me it’s two a.m. Shouts and screams and crying, “Hush” and “Shh…” and “Please!” eruptions finally settle, and I head back to bed, all too cognizant that we’ll be seeing that luminescent, incendiary “2:00” every night this week.
Perched on stools in the breakfast nook, things are not much different. Bowl of cereal on the table melding in an amorphous blob. Splatters and a spoon nearby. A cute boy too far away from his breakfast. And shrieks and cries of “Give me this!” but “Not that way!” and before you take a moment’s breath, “Where is it already?!”
Morning wakings at six, then five, then four. For months on end, because how do you stop a pattern? Think about dressing a toddler once, twice, a third time, again and again — for 45 minutes straight. Think about the tantrums, the fighting, the two-year-long toilet-training, the screams when anyone comes too close. And, of course, the two a.m. strategy sessions, held an average of five and a half times a week.
At my wits’ end, I reach out to show him (and me) that I’m his mother. To hug him, to stroke him, to hold him close and safe. To caress the scrapes, to calm his fears, to kiss away his tears. Then panic strikes; he whirls from reach and shrieks at the slightest touch. No sweet bedtime snuggles to set everything right; his world lies between us.