I remember a time when my eldest son was always awake, playing with his toys, excavating the kitchen floor with his tractors and taking the bathroom cabinets apart with his 17-piece pry-bar set.

Oh, those were the days.

He never slept back then, not really. Sure, there would be an occasional, yet brief, nap. And of course there was a time when he had the flu and was peaceful for the better part of an hour. But by and large, he never took more than a couple of winks at any given sitting.

The first couple of months of his little life were the worst. I clearly remember rocking the little fella to sleep, looking down at his precious little face, and thinking, “My, how angelic.” I’d admire his little hands, his cute little chin, and then I’d pray to God that I could get him into the crib before he woke up and started screaming again.

The process of transferring him to a place of rest was not an easy one. I’d lower him a centimeter at a time so as not to alarm him. Once his body connected with the mattress, I’d begin the painfully slow extraction of my arms. Little by little, I’d pull them out from under him. I’d even close my own eyes just in case he’d open his, making a “shh-shh” sound as I prayed he’d stay asleep.

Most of the time I never made it past the first “shh” before he woke up. But sometimes the gods of slumber smiled upon me. Once I even made it to the door before he woke up and started crying again.

He kept up his period of sleeplessness right on through the terrible twos. And it is my contention that a more terrible two-er was never born. While other kids played with trucks, he liked the sound they made when they hit the wall. He also loved toilet paper. And what that kid couldn’t do with a crayon couldn’t be done. Long before he was old enough to appreciate color, he was putting it together on the wall

His respect for literature was virtually nonexistent, and while other toddlers would look at books for hours on end, mine was more enthralled with tearing out the pages.

He spent the better part of his adolescence running amok. He was destroying this and into that and when he learned to ride his bike, he tore down the sidewalk with enough energy to light up the west side of the Northern Hemisphere. I never saw such stamina.

There was never a break from his activities or a reprieve from his disasters. Because, like I said, the kid never slept.

Then my awake child turned 16. He has been unconscious ever since. He’s tired when he wakes up and tired when he falls back into bed. He sleeps through the morning, naps through the afternoons, and if we left him alone, he’d hibernate right through the winter months.

On our last family vacation he slept so much that we had his oxygen levels checked for deprivation. Although he woke up at a restaurant long enough to eat a Triple Papa Cheeseburger, he only made it halfway through his french fries before he pronounced his exhaustion and headed off to the closest thing that looked like a pillow.

The kid has turned into a regular Sleeping Beauty.

Then just yesterday it happened. Our sleeping wonder woke up. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true. I was on the phone and enjoying a great gossip session with my good friend, Ethel, when I heard a moaning noise coming around the corner.

“What the heck is that?” asked one of my little cherubs.

“Either we’re being invaded by Frankenstein, or Vernon has finally arisen,” said another.

“Honey,” I exclaimed as I put the phone down, “is it you? Is it really you? Are you really awake? Pat, come quickly! Vernon’s awake!”

“Mmph,” Vernon said through half-opened eyes. And then he spoke the first sentence he’s spoken since reaching the teen years, “Man, am I beat.”

“Beat? Did you just say beat? You just woke up from an extensive resting period, you don’t get to be beat.”

“Well, Mom,” he replied as he yawned, stretched and scratched himself, “it is now known that sleep deprivation in teenagers can lead to poor health, behavioral and attention problems in school, and we certainly wouldn’t want that.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, it’s true. And wow, that was quite a sentence. I’m pretty sure I need a nap.”

The writing is on the wall; I may have to give that kid his 17-piece pry-bar set back, and soon.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.