In less than a week, I will be...brace yourselves....45. Yeah, I know how can that even be possible? I swear I look into my mirror, which must obviously be some type of trick mirror since I seem to look so much better in that mirror than I do in any photos (unless the photo is a distant shot, the lighting is poor and airbrushing was used) and I wonder, who is that tired looking stranger in my bathroom? Before I dial 911 to report an intruder wearing a robe exactly like mine, I rub my almost 45 year old eyes and think, "Sh*t. That's me." Some days, I think I would prefer a weird stranger in my bathroom than the depressing, realization that the old, tired reflection in the mirror is the same girl you see on this 1970's metal "swingset". It seems like just yesterday, I was 10, playing outside with friends, getting the star boy kickball player "out" by miraculously catching the ball that knocked me on my ass and watching non-stop episodes of my favorite television show, The Brady Bunch.

My gosh I loved that Brady family. I mean who didn't want that AWEsome 1970's house with Alice the housekeeper, six kids to play with, a dog named Tiger, and parents who were so dumb they wouldn't let their kids play ball in the house, but, allowed the same kids to naively wear a native taboo Hawiian idol around their neck which almost lead to a deadly tarantula bite. Last week, as I sat anxiously waiting for Ryan's chorus concert, it wasn't "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia" or annoying, put upon middle sister Jan I was thinking about, no, it was the one Brady who rarely stole the show, who sort of blended in to the background, it was Peter and his voice changing hormonal self.

Remember the episode when the Brady kids got an opportunity to sing on live television (of course they did) in hopes of becoming the next Jackson 5, I mean 6 ? All the Brady kids sang like beautiful song birds (each one secretly hoping they would be like Michael and leave the rest of the siblings in the dust), except Poor Peter. No way Peter was going to be the next Michael Jackson, because in that moment when it was Peter's time to shine, his pubescent voice picked that moment as a "Time to Change". Here is a little reminder. I'm sorry (not really).

Now that Ryan has reached the Peter Brady age, I will occasionally hear a Peter Brady "sha na na na na", come out of his beautiful, soulful voice and I wonder how this voice changing thing will effect Ryan's singing. As with all things Ryan, I then begin to worry. What if he can no longer sing? What if he no longer has perfect pitch? What if this God given talent was only doled out temporarily for childhood and with the onset of puberty, this gift will be snatched away as quickly as Cindy Brady's Kitty Carryall Doll? OMG, what if Ryan started sounding like, or even worse yet, started dressing like (gulp) Peter Brady?

When I asked Ryan about his voice changing he assured me that he can hear the difference in his voice, so he "adjusts it". I don't even know what that means, but, Ryan sounded quite confident and as he took the stage, and the first notes poured out of that beautiful face, I didn't need to understand it, because I could see it and I could hear it. If Peter Brady was on that stage, there were enough other kids on stage with him to drown him out, so that not a single voice cracking "sha na na na na" could be heard. Ryan sang his beautifully, gifted heart out. There were a number of songs Ryan sang that night, but, it was evident that one song in particular he loved best. The one that Ryan felt so deeply, sang so beautifully was the one song that reduced this worrying Carol Brady into a big, heaping puddle of tears.

Ryan's select chorus group sang Bridge Over Troubled Water and yes Ryan sang it, but mostly Ryan felt it. His facial expression, his confidence, his heart, his soul were all on full display, there was no awkward autismy smile trying to hide his feelings, he was fully exposed and he was beautiful. As I sat with tears streaming down my face I couldn't help but picture the depths of troubled water we have crossed together. The worry, the fear, the anxiety we both have had about how to cross that water without falling in and being swept away. I wondered to myself, did Ryan love this song for it's musical score, the notes, the melody, or the lyrics? I don't know why this song stirred Ryan, but, as I felt the melody wrap around me and draw me in, I wondered if Ryan knew, if he had always known, that "I would lay me down" to get him wherever he needed to go, regardless of the water's depth, turbulence and undertow.

I have been the bridge for my boy. Some days I have been like the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, strong and sturdy, towering high above the water, with not so much as a drop of water splashing my son, and some days I have been a slippery log that has conveniently fallen in just the right place, barely able to hold Ryan up as he slips and slides, to his destination, finally making it across the water to dry land. Although, I may not have always been the sturdiest bridge, in fact more times than not, my bridge should have been closed due to "instability", rated as "structurally deficient" and at high risk of "failure", but, somehow, regardless of the degree of deterioration, I managed to get Ryan across the troubled water. Regardless of how many storms this old rickety bridge has weathered or how many times this shaky bridge was stepped on, trod across, or flooded, I never once let my boy plunge head first into the water. Sure, like most of us, he has gotten wet from time to time, but, I have always been there to get him safely to the other side where he could dry off, change course, if necessary, and move on.

Like most of my fellow mama bridges, there were many days when the structural integrity of my bridge was compromised due to wear and tear, cracks in my towers, and years of being barraged by turbulent waters, and AWEnestly, my boy got wet. Unlike most bridges, we mama bridges do not have a built in accelerometer to alert us to deficiencies and deterioration. There was no way to determine if too much stress and fatigue was being placed on the bridge, increasing the chance that my occupant might fall into the cold, unforgiving water. However, as I watched my son sing, as I watched him achieve, as I watched the confidence soar from his heart as easily as the notes flew from his soul, I recognized that some of the falling, some of the getting wet, and yes, even some of this bridge's "structural deficiency" enabled Ryan to appreciate this moment. All the bridges Ryan had to navigate to cross that troubled water lead him to this moment, where he is today and without having to occasionally struggle to get across that water, he would not fully recognize the beauty of what it is to make it to the other side.

On the days when the water looked calm and serene to me, without warning, Ryan would see a tsunami coming. Regardless if I saw the wave coming or not, this bridge had to be open, this bridge had to be structurally sound ready to bear the weight in order to get Ryan safely across the water. Other days, when to me the water seemed choppy, and everywhere I turned there were whitecaps stirring in the water, I would do a quick safety check, ensuring that my towers were sturdy and my cables were strong because come hell or high water, I had to get my boy across that water, and just like that, Ryan would calmly walk across the bridge without even a backward glance at what I perceived as troubled water.

To all my fellow bridges out there, who safely get their child from point A to point B across that real or perceived troubled water, no matter how deficient and deteriorated you may feel, you always have to be structurally sound, because for a child with an ASD, even the calmest water can look like a deadly whirlpool. There is no time to determine if you are "structurally deficient" or "functionally obsolete", your passenger is counting on this bridge and whether or not your passenger decides he needs to cross this bridge today to get him across that water, or if he decides to take another route altogether, what matters most is that your amazingly AWEsome passenger knows, that for him, you will always "lay me down".

On the days where you feel like a fallen over, moss covered log that got lucky and just happened to land across the water, and on the days where you are as structurally sound, and as meticulously constructed as the Golden Gate Bridge, you still get your passenger across that water. We bridges, no matter our rating, get our passengers where they need to be, and we will always get them where they need to go. So, here's to you all my bridges.

As the last notes of Bridge Over Troubled Water echoed off the school auditorium walls and off my ready to burst with pride heart, I was in AWE of my AWEsome boy. In that moment, I felt certain that Carol Brady and her perfectly coiffed hair, never felt the pride I felt for my Peter Brady (as an aside, unlike Carol Brady, I would never allow Ryan to wear a taboo Hawaiian idol on his neck or that hideous shirt as seen on Peter in the above video). A "Time to Change" may be on the horizon, but, this bridge, regardless of my instability, my deterioration, and my current safety rating, will be there to hold my boy up as he crosses whatever troubled water lies ahead. 

Ironically, in 2013 the average age of bridges in the US was 42 years of age and the bridge safety rating was a C+. On some days, when I am "structurally sound, but functionally obsolete", that age and rating sounds and feels about right, for this tired, old, weary bridge. However, on most days when this bridge feels new, sturdy, and strong, I guarantee, that regardless of my age, regardless of what I see in that damn, lying, bathroom mirror, and regardless of what grade the Federal Highway Administration feels I deserve, I know one passenger who on most days, would give me an A+...ok, fine, maybe just an A...as long as I get him over the water and he doesn't get too wet.

When I was a kid, I used to occasionally put aside the Lucky Charms and opt for a bowl of Wheaties because just like I believed Lucky Charms were "magically delicious", I also believed that Wheaties was "The Breakfast of Champions". Who doesn't want to trade in some marshmallows and a leprechaun in order to be a champion? Back in my younger days, Misty May-Treanor was not on the front of the Wheaties Box because quite frankly, Misty wasn't even born yet (ouch). No, back in the old days, Bruce Jenner held the coveted Wheaties Box Champion Title.  Oh Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, times they have a-changed. The 1976 decathlon Gold Medalist Bruce Jenner, was most certainly a champion and worthy of a Wheaties box cover, but, the Bruce Jenner of today, well, suffice it to say, Wheaties may want their box back. Poor Bruce, he got so caught up with those Kardashians and all that plastic surgery....bad plastic surgery, that I wonder if General Mills has bought all the Bruce Jenner Wheaties off of eBay to cover their champion idolizing tracks.

For some reason, when I hear the word "champion", I almost automatically think champion (noun), and picture an athlete (not Bruce Jenner...sorry Bruce) on a podium being given a trophy or medal. According to Webster, the definition of THAT champion is "someone or something that has won a contest or competition especially in sports." Obviously, in 1976, Bruce deserved to be on The Breakfast of Champions box, after all, he was an Olympic Gold Medalist. The definition of the verb champion, is never on the front of the box, heck this type of champion isn't even on the side or the back of the box, which incidentally is where champion's photos were placed prior to 1958 (A little Wheaties trivia that could one day make you a champion (noun) on Jeopardy. You're welcome). Champion (verb)  is "a person who fights or argues for a cause on behalf of someone else". This type of champion (verb) may be outspoken, may fight, argue and advocate for someone they believe in, but, these champions never make it on the front of the Wheaties box, preferring to allow the champion (noun) they are championing, to remain front and center.

In honor of Autism Awareness Month, today's blog is for all the champions who don't make it to the front of the Wheaties box, but, who are no less a champion than an Olympic Gold Medalist. These champions of children and adults living with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, teachers, and therapists. They educate, advocate, and support the belief of "different, not less". Because of their love, because of their commitment, because of their desire to see their child, sibling, grandchild, or student "win", these champions (verb)  have helped create champions (noun). Just like an Olympic Gold Medalist, these champions work tirelessly in order to make sure their son or daughter stands on that podium. They "fight or argue on behalf" of their champion who may one day be on the front of the Wheaties box. They are the champion (verb)...the fighter...the coach...and the voice...that helps create a champion (noun).

It would be delightful if someday Wheaties would have an autism champion (verb) on the front of their box, but, chances are, that won't happen. So, in order to make up for General Mills' lapse in judgement, I want to make sure the champions championing autism awareness are visible today. These fighters, these tigers, are not roaring because they want to be difficult, these champions (verb) are roaring because they need to be heard since they are "fighting on behalf of someone else"...their child. If they don't roar, then who will? 

Until I began championing my champion, I was scared, beaten down by The A Word and my cohorts, Denial and Clueless, and I had no idea what I was doing. I worried more about other people's impressions than what was right for my son. Now I will fight, champion, advocate and roar when I need to, because in order for my son to become a champion (noun), he needs a champion (verb). Most days I don't have to tie on my boxing gloves. Most days people are aware that what every person, with or without an ASD, wants is ACCEPTANCE. The month of April is about Autism Awareness and Autism Acceptance. So, today I am championing for all the champions (verb) loving a child with an ASD. Here are a few examples of moments that are front of the Wheaties box worthy:

For those folks in the mall who may be out looking for spring sandals for your child, we want you to know that the meltdown in the shoe store is not meant to disrupt your shopping experience or make you feel uncomfortable, but, the lights, the noise and the smell of the shoe store for our child is too much. Our kids also wear shoes and we champions have to shop for shoes and put them on our kids feet.

For the school administrators who are tired of words like FAPE (Free Appropriate Public Education), IDEA (Individuals with Disabilities Education Act), and IEP (Individualized Education Plan),  and who often believe that autism is "the flavor of the month", we are not trying to make your job harder. Our kids need an education. We champions make sure they get it.

To the insurance companies (whom AWEnestly, I have NO sympathy for), who don't understand that a trip to the dentist is like a trip to Hades for our kids, we are not trying to harass you with our repeated phone calls or get your fired when we ask to speak to your supervisor. We need the right code for the right surgical center so our child can get a cavity filled without fire and brimstone raining down on them in the dental chair. Our kids need good dental hygiene, and we champions will walk through fire to ensure you pay for some of it (then curse all insurance companies to Hades when you fail to pay a cent).

We are the voice, the fighter, the educator, and the tiger. We champion for our kids whose communication struggles makes it easier for them to remain silent. We champion for our kids who hate the feel of leather boxing gloves. We champion for our kids who cringe at the sound of a deafening roar. We will continue to argue, to fight, to walk through fire in order to champion our champions, and even though you may never see our face on the front of the Wheaties box, I promise you will always hear us ROAR.

For those of you who know me personally, you know I have been blessed (or cursed, depends on how long you have to sit next to me) with the "gift of gab". It's very rare, that my mouth isn't open and moving. Even as I sleep, my mouth hangs wide open, as I mumble and chat with the folks who are brave enough to enter my dreams. This gift of gab is not new, I'm pretty sure I came out of the womb talking. Teachers in elementary school gave me the nickname, "Chatty Kathy" (I'm a K, not a C), just like the very scary, Chucky's twin sister, 1960's Chatty Cathy doll that could "chat" (and possibly kill you in your sleep) when you pulled a string on her back. 

AWEnestly, look at that doll...is she pointing at me in a "I'm coming for you next?" kind of way (shudder)? That doll is so freaky and as a fourth grader had I known how offensive the nickname "Chatty Kathy" was, I would have put one of those creepy, possessed looking dolls under my teacher's bed with a toy knife in it's hand. Who needs a tack on teacher's chair, when a Chatty Cathy doll lies await under teacher's bed? Dan, who is not a small talker and who amazingly has not put a Chatty Cathy doll under our bed to scare me into silence, once told me that I could befriend and small talk with a fence post. As long as the fence post occasionally creaked to show some type of interest in what I was chatting about, I probably could befriend and chat with a fence post. A fence post isn't nearly as scary as Chatty Cathy.

Ok, fine, my dirty little secret it out. I'm terrified of creepy looking dolls, and I'm a chatter box blessed with the gift of gab who can engage in small talk all day long with my blah, blah, blah, Chatty Cathy mouth... often at tongue straining speed. If any kind of alcohol or medication is added to my gift of gab, it's highly recommended that anyone within 50 yards of me, grab some ear plugs and an interpreter in order to protect your hearing and decipher what the he** I am saying. Even during my college days, I never "experimented" with stimulants because I felt certain that between my already hyper, overstimulated personality and my gift of gab, someone would have surely tossed me over a balcony. I promise you, had I been given an opportunity to score some of Walter White's highly addictive blue meth from the series Breaking Bad, regardless of it's 99% purity, I still would have never become a meth head junkie. Walter would have shot or poisoned me within three minutes of my first meth buzz. I would have never stood a chance of becoming addicted. 

Good thing we have no balconies at our home and it's probably in my best interest to never have my science loving, money loving Ryan ever meet up with Walter White because Ryan does not believe my gift of gab is a gift at all. In fact, to Ryan, most of the time I am just noise...noise that makes his "brain hurt". Ryan loves me to the sun and back, but, as far as my small talk gift of gab, well, quite frankly, Ryan would happily have me re-gift my gab and Dan would probably help Ryan wrap it. Re-gifting my gab is a much better scenario than having those two inquire with Walt how big of a barrel they need for me.

Ryan loves small talk about as much as Walter White loves the DEA. Autism, or Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a social communication disorder. Many people with an ASD, have difficulties with socialization and communication and Ryan is no exception. Small talk involves both communication skills and social skills and Ryan struggles with both. Ryan is also a perfectionist. If Ryan can't get something right, or if Ryan thinks he won't get something right, Ryan is not going to risk being wrong. So, whatever this "something" is, just ain't gonna happen. This is why, more often than not, Ryan remains silent in social settings. 

Small talk is a way of social bonding, a way of trying to fit in or be accepted. Ryan spends very little time concerning himself with fitting in. That's not to say that Ryan does not care about fitting in, but, socializing, bonding, and fitting in exhaust Ryan. Socializing for Ryan means too many social cues that he misses, too many words with double meanings, too many facial expressions that are hard to read and too much body language that is hard to interpret. More times than not, Ryan decides that small talk and "fitting in" is all just way too hard and not worth the risk, so he frequently chooses to be alone. Small talk is also used as a way to start or end a conversation or to fill in that awkward silence in a conversation many of us find uncomfortable. Since conversing is difficult for Ryan, and since silence to him is not awkward, but, a welcome relief, it makes perfect sense that for Ryan, small talk is BIG.

Back when Denial and I were often engaging in small talk, Denial would tell me that if I just kept talking at, I mean to, Ryan, he would eventually respond. So, every day on our way home from daycare, I would barrage Ryan with questions about his day. Just trying to prompt him to say something. "What did you have for snack?"..."Did you take a nap?"..."Did you make any crafts?"...and my favorite, most terrifying question that always came last, "Who did you play with on the playground today?". All my questions would go unanswered as Ryan stared out the car window, wishing there was a balcony to toss me and Denial over. I kept thinking, every single day, if Ryan would just answer one question, if he would just connect with me on one thing, I would be so much happier. Just like my friend, Fence Post, I felt certain that all my chatter, all my small talk would eventually make Ryan creak. Funny, how in those moments when I was so worried and so scared and wondered, "Why doesn't he respond to me?", Ryan's happiness didn't come into my mind. Getting Ryan to small talk was for me, not him. All Ryan wanted after a long day of daycare, school, and expectations, was to finally be in a place where he was safe, loved, and free of the stress of what he was expected to say next.

When Ryan continually failed to engage in my small talk chatter, or in small talk with friends, Denial assured me that Ryan just didn't care about friends, so small talk wasn't even necessary. This "didn't care" conclusion that Denial enabled me to draw, lead to many quiet car rides home with only Spongebob playing in the DVD as company. For Denial to have me believe, or anyone believe, that Ryan doesn't care about the social bonding of small talk or making friends is unfair. Certainly, small talk may not be as desirable for Ryan as it is for his mother, Chatty Kathy, but, just because Ryan's small talk is minimal, doesn't mean he cares little about acceptance, it just means that for Ryan, it is easier, and safer, to stay silent. After all, with silence, there is no chance of social mishaps, there is no chance of misinterpreting what someone means, there is no chance of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, so, there is no chance of getting hurt. Whether he likes it or not, Ryan needs to learn what to say, and how to effectively communicate to survive in a world full of Chatty Kathy's. Coming from the heart of a Chatty Kathy mom, I hope that one day Ryan will not only know how to small talk, I hope that maybe one day he will actually want to chat with me.

Ryan has worked with Mrs. P, an amazing speech and language therapist, for five years, not because Ryan is non-verbal, not because he has poor articulation, but, mostly to help Ryan with his social speech, to help him engage in small talk. We all know that regardless of a designer Autism label, small talk is big when it comes to relationships with peers, teachers and colleagues. Ryan can do it, he can be taught to small talk, but, chances are, small talk for Ryan will always be BIG. Mrs. P has given Ryan the foundation he needs to small talk with his family, his friends, and his teachers, but, Mrs. P, no matter how wonderful she is, can't make Ryan want to do it. Autism may always have a hand ready to cover Ryan's mouth and keep him silent, but, maybe one day, Ryan will willingly and confidently push that hand aside. I have seen it happen...on rare occasions.

Needless to say, for a Chatty Kathy, someone who rambles on and on and on and on and on, having my son not engage in small talk with me, regardless of the reason, is still difficult. The AWEsome thing about my attempts at small talk with Ryan now is that Ryan has the communication skills to tell me, I'm "setting his brain on fire", or that I'm "speaking gibberish" or that he has "no possible idea" what the heck I am saying. Even Chatty Kathy knows when someone is nicely telling her to shut the he** up. I recognize that when Ryan gives me an inch, just a tiny hint of his willingness to engage in some small talk, I go for the mile, speaking gibberish at a high rate of speed that gets muddled up somewhere between Ryan's ears and his brain. In my hyper-crazed excitement to find Ryan, I wind up losing him again. Someone needs to tie a knot in this Chatty Kathy's pull string.

You can only imagine that on the rare occasions that autism releases it's hand from my boy's mouth, and he does decide to strike up some small talk with me, I feel like I am getting a glimpse inside his soul. I never, ever take these moments for granted and I try so hard to tape Chatty Kathy's mouth shut. A few weeks ago, while driving to pick Kyle up at baseball, Ryan said, "Are you aware that the mineral fluorite has the ability to glow in the dark?". I almost hit a pedestrian. First of all, Ryan STARTED the conversation, second of all, he asked it in the form of a question (never happens unless it's "Where's my lunch?") and finally, I had no idea what he said because for once his words sounded like "gibberish" to me. Fluorite? What in the name of Sam Hill was fluorite? I tried to wrack my brain with a smart mineralogist type of response. Turns out, my, dumb mother response of, "I had no idea!! What else can you tell me about fluorite." was all I needed for my brilliant son to chat for a good five minutes about minerals. 

Thank God for minerals, rocks and an AWEsome science teacher. Those five minutes were a gift so beautiful and so amazing that my gift of gab only interrupted twice...and he called me on it both times by saying, "I wasn't finished yet.", and that's when I almost struck a light pole (Clearly Ryan's moments of small talk should not happen while I'm driving.). "I wasn't finished yet.", meant Ryan didn't give up, he didn't shut down because mom couldn't shut up, small talk got hard, but, Ryan stuck it out. Autism raised it's hand to cover Ryan's mouth and he crushed that hand with a big chunk of pyrite (aka Fool's Gold...I knew that one). Wow! It was without a doubt, the most amazing small talk, I have ever engaged in...and I'm still gushing over it.

As the van slowly pulled up to the curb at the high school, the magical moment ended, but, my heart continued to soar. Ryan crawled into the back seat, making room for Kyle, and turned on Spongebob. Our small talk had ended, but, it gave me a glimpse into my son's future. I pictured him surrounded with other sciencey like, smarty pants mineralogists in white lab coats discussing minerals (I realize mineralogists may wear polo shirts instead of lab coats, but, please let me have my moment) and Ryan not only engaging in the small talk, but, enjoying it. Surrounding himself with like minded people discussing something he is interested in, may be all Ryan needs to have small talk not be so BIG. I just hope that this group of white lab coat wearing mineralogists need a dumb, old Chatty Kathy to work in the lab cleaning up mineral dust and answering the phones, so I can continue to witness my AWEsome boy, finally being so comfortable with who he is, that small talk comes as easy as pulling a string.

I looooove Saturday mornings...sleeping in, no early morning kid activities, and long leisurely breakfasts in my jammies with my hot off the presses, just delivered on Friday, People Magazine. My little piece of heaven. So, when I have to get up early on a Saturday, I am not only tired from celebrating the arrival of the weekend by watching three back to back episodes of Breaking Bad until the wee hours of the morning, I'm grumpy too. "The early bird gets the worm", so goes the old proverb, but, this past Saturday, Ryan and I weren't going for worms (I could just hear his annoyance at such a stupid saying), we were embarking on a 45 minute road trip with a quick stop at Dunkin Donuts. Here's the thing, Dunkin Donuts makes donuts ALL DAY LONG. Oh sure, they want you to believe that their donut baker lumbers out of bed with the early bird while moaning, "Time to make the donuts" so you feel rushed to be the FIRST ones in line for the freshest, choice donut, but, it's all a scam. You can be the late bird and still score a tasty, trans fat and cream filled donut. 

Ryan was about as thrilled as I was with the early morning Saturday change in routine, so instead of telling him the "early bird gets the worm" (eyes roll), I told Ryan the early bird gets the choice donut. Yeah, I'm as big of a phony as the "time to make the donuts" guy. Ryan whined, complained and stumbled out of bed and refused to brush his teeth because it would "ruin" the taste of the coveted donuts (he popped in a piece of gum after the donuts which I know a dentist would not approve of as a toothbrush substitute). Before we headed out the door, I was ordered to fill Ryan's Thermos with Welch's Grape Juice because my boy's elephant memory, recalled that Dunkin Donuts does not have Welch's Grape Juice and that their orange juice has pulp in it (the horror). We early birds, were so early, Ryan and I even had time to go inside Dunkin Donuts and peruse the plethora of choices rather than risk a donut catastrophe at the drive thru. Once we recovered from the near meltdown that took place when my early bird spied the strawberry iced donuts being placed on the shelf after our order was placed, bagged and paid for (clearly when it was "time to make the donuts" the strawberry iced ones weren't at the top of the old, tired baker's list), we were on our way, to our real destination.

Ryan loves a road trip, and I love having him in the passenger seat next to me (even though I stress a little because I know he is safer in the back, but, now that he is 12 and the law says he can ride up front, there is no going back...figuratively and literally). Quality time, just the two of us, enhanced with a little donut sugar high. I tried for a while to chit chat, but, after being grunted at numerous times, I gave up and was equally happy listening to my boy singing, scripting and laughing at whatever show he was watching inside his head. In that moment, I sort of related to that early bird and his successful worm hunt, although I was tired and longed for my leisurely breakfast while happily admiring Matthew McConaughey in a black tuxedo (sorry Matthew, the white was a little too Saturday Night Fever for me) in People, maybe getting up early, really did enable me to score the coveted worm.

Although I was enjoying the morning, I didn't get out of bed early and leave the Oscar predictions in my latest People Magazine sitting on the kitchen table for Dunkin Donuts. Nope, our destination was a Music Festival at a local college for piano students. This was Ryan's first time attending so I had no idea what to expect and for a boy who likes a plan and struggles with "new", he didn't know what to expect either. Ryan's fabulous piano teacher had written out a schedule for him instructing him when to be where. First up on the list, was a workshop on the Progression of Left Hand Accompaniment Patterns. What? I made Ryan LOL, even though he shushed me with embarrassment, when I did my best Charlie Brown's teacher impersonation. I am completely illiterate when it comes to anything music, so this professor's "wah, wah, wah, wah, wah", was like a foreign language to me. I tried to pay attention, but, after Ryan moved two rows in front of me, not because I was such an embarrassment to him, but, because the professor told him to (although, I'm sure he was relieved to put some distance between himself and his musically inept mother), I found my mind start to wander. 

As I sat waiting for the workshop to end, I began to worry about Ryan's "adjudication" on his piano skills which would be next. Ryan would be judged on various piano playing skills while in a room...alone...without me. As my anxiety began to escalate, awaiting this so called, "adjudication", I couldn't help but recall a different type of adjudication that I regularly attended as a juvenile probation officer. Waiting for a judge to make a different kind of adjudication for a different kind of kid. As a juvenile probation officer, it was my job to provide testimony to the court about the juvenile who stood next to me. I couldn't help but compare my role as a mother whose job it was to protect, advocate and fight for my child being that much different, yet, I struggled with whether or not Ryan would object to my testimony or if the judge would find my testimony relevant. 

I wondered, if at this adjudication for my child, do I present the facts...all the facts, or do I let Ryan take the stand on his own without my testimony? Will Ryan incriminate himself when he doesn't make eye contact with the judge? Will the judge think Ryan is rude if he forgets to say, "thank you" or ignores a question the judge asks that has nothing to do with the piano? What if Ryan drops his paper and refuses to pick it up because he hates the feel of paper? Will the judge think Ryan is not taking his adjudication seriously? Will Ryan's flat out refusal to put on a name tag because stickers have caused him anxiety since he was two, make him appear defiant? If Ryan refuses to take his coat off because the hot air blowing from the vents makes his skin feel dry and scratchy, will the judge think Ryan has no respect for the Music Festival, the adjudication and the piano itself? There was a whole lot going on in my scary head for a 45 minute piano workshop. 

This battle going in my psyche came to a standstill when I watched Ryan practice in a sound room minutes before his adjudication. It was then that I decided not to hang my kid out to dry (he would have assured me he was not wet). I decided that if I don't want a label to define Ryan, even when his quirks and social struggles make him stand out, then I can't define him with that label at every turn either. There are times when The A Word, has to be mentioned...at a 504 Plan Meeting with school officials, at the dentist office when they realize total sedation will be necessary to fill a cavity (or three), at the pediatrician's office when a strep test is necessary, or at the hair salon when it's a new stylist, but, not at a piano adjudication. This was not because I didn't want Ryan to do well. It was not because my lack of interest in music minimized the importance of music to my son. The reason I let Ryan take the stand on his own was because unlike those courtroom adjudications when my words were needed to describe the juvenile standing before me, my words were not needed before a judge in a sound room. Sharing words....sharing The A Word, was unnecessary because this was music and music is one place where Ryan's quirks and differences disappear into the ivory of the keys.

I wished Ryan luck, although I knew it was not necessary, and Ryan walked past me, piano books in hand, a smile on his face and no name tag whatsoever. As I heard the judge greet Ryan, Ryan mumbled a monotonic, "hello", then he quietly closed the door and left me to wait on the other side. This was new for me, being on the other side of the door, not being Ryan's voice. Although I trembled with nervous energy, I had never been more proud of my son. As I listened through the door, frustrated that I didn't bring a cup to hold against the door to enhance the sound (AWEnestly people, I can't cut the cord completely), I did not hear Ryan speak in his British accent scripting Stampylonghead in a diatribe about Minecraft, I did not hear Ryan stumble over his words with his sometimes "cluttered" speech and I did not hear Ryan complain about the heat blowing out of the vents. All this spying, worried mom heard, was the beautiful sound of Ryan's fingers finding the right chords, timing his intervals and "expanding the use of the keyboard" as Ryan's label, his quirks, his differences, dissipated with each beautifully played note.

I all but fell into the room once Ryan finished and opened the door, and I quickly and discreetly wiped away my tears so Ryan wouldn't reprimand me for being "too proud". Ryan bounced out of the room and said, "That judge guy was AWEsome and he said I did great!". In fact, "that judge guy" gave Ryan the highest marks, "superior", in every category with the exception of one "excellent". Clearly, Ryan did not need my testimony, the facts of who he is and what he is capable of, were evident without any input from me. I did not need to share The A Word with the judge who adjudicated my son because he did not need words or a label to see Ryan's ability. There will always be times when Ryan's quirks will make me want to quickly defend him by throwing that A Word under the bus, but, more and more, Ryan doesn't need excuses, labels, or me defining him. Ryan is finding his own place in the world, and as he has told me time and time again, "I don't feel different, I just feel like me."

This is one early bird, who is so glad that my love of sleep, a late breakfast and a date with People Magazine did not cause me to miss the worm. Not because I wanted the fattest worm or the choice donut, but, because I got to spend a day with someone who constantly puts the AWE in AWEsome. Someone who will never let a label, a judge or even his mother, define him. Some days it takes me longer to wake up than others. This past Saturday, even with my donut sugar high, it took me all day to wake up, but, when I finally did, I realized that even a full page spread of Matthew McConaughey playing strategically placed bongos in People Magazine, takes a back seat to the wonderfully gifted piano player sitting in the front seat next to me. 

This is a quick shout out to all the strong, loving, AWEsome moms I met yesterday at the 2014 Day of Pampering at the First United Methodist Church of Mechanicsburg. So many women shared their heartache, their struggles, but, mostly, their joy with me. To quote the beloved Dr. Seuss, my "heart grew three sizes that day". I promised these AWE inspiring moms that I would post the video I shared yesterday since there was a bit of a technical glitch with the audio. I also promised that I would invite everyone in attendance to my house for a glitch free showing along with wine, but, due to my public speaking anxiety, I failed to give the audience my address. I swear, it had nothing to do with my fear of the bill for the wine I would have needed to purchase for these amazing ladies.

I was AWEstruck by your compassion, strength and determination to make sure your intricate, one of a kind snowflake remains visible and that their uniqueness is never lost in the blanket of snow. Remember, even on the days when your snowflake seems invisible to everyone, YOU will always make sure he or she can be seen. "Stand up Mother!" because you are not invisible either. Your child sees you and so does every mother loving their unique snowflake with a "different" ability!

Here is the clip from the Emmys when Temple asked her mother, who believed, "different, not less" to "Stand up mother". Makes me cry EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Minecraft. If you haven't heard of it, then you obviously do not have school aged kids, you do not ever enter into retail establishments and you quite obviously have not fallen prey to social media. In other words, you must be living under a virtual pile of Legos. I admit, I'm no Minecraft expert, but, since Minecraft in the ONLY thing that comes out of Emma and Ryan's mouths these days, I have been dragged into the Minecraft world, with no sword or pick axe to gauge my ears out, so I've picked up on the basics.

From what I have been able to grasp, right before my eyes glaze over from the obsessive Minecraft chatter, you are alone in a virtual world that sort of resembles an island. With little to survive than your bare hands and the various minerals and materials you can find in said world to build shelter, tools, and whatever else you need to protect yourself from the things that go bump in the night. Think Tom Hanks in Castaway, sans Wilson, and throw in a zombie or creeper...or two. There is a creative mode with lots of creative building options to enhance your anything goes virtual world and a survival mode where you also get to build, in order to protect yourself from the zombies, creepers and spiders who are just waiting to take you out. Tom Hanks had no idea how good he had it with only madness barking at his makeshift cave door. And unlike Tom Hanks, in your Minecraft virtual world, you can continue to be alone in your deserted island like world, or you can invite friends to join you.

In addition to the Minecraft game itself, there are also YouTube Videos where people narrate and record their actions in their Minecraft virtual world. The most famous of these is Stampylonghead, with over 1.6 million followers and over 818 videos. This dude, with his horribly overexaggerated and highly excitable British accent, has a lot of time on his hands. I swear, I hear Stampylonghead while awake and in my sleep. This is because Ryan can mimick Stampy's voice to a tee and does so most of the day and in his dreams at night. I swear, Ryan's British accent is so good, he could easily land a role on Downton Abbey. I understand why parents like this Minecraft game. There is a lot of creativity, imagination and wholesome, mostly non-violent fun that draws kids in like bees to honey. As cool as the game is though, I'm ready for a bug zapper.

I had been telling Ryan for months that I thought he should try Minecraft since I read that tons of kids, including kids with an ASD, love the game, but Ryan kept saying it was stupid, because Ryan has a teenage brother who told him it was stupid. Needless to say, this teenage brother, who shoots Nazis in Call of Duty and runs from the police in his Lamborghini while playing GTA (Grand Theft Auto for all you newbs) feels that a virtual Lego type world, of old style graphics, is lame and since Ryan has worshipped Kyle from the moment Ryan was born, Ryan believed Minecraft was stupid too. Until Ryan's little sister built her first shelter and killed her first Creeper. Emma didn't reach "worship" status, but, she did impress her brother Ryan, which is more difficult than taking out a zombie with a diamond sword (we sound like a terribly violent family, don't we?).

Ryan's worship like nature of his big brother Kyle is twofold. One, Kyle has an extremely big heart and he "gets" Ryan, and two, quite simply, is birth order. Kyle was here first, so, Ryan doesn't know a life without Kyle, but, you can bet all your Minecraft diamonds that Ryan remembers life before his little sister arrived on the scene. Suffice it to say, Ryan would never string the words "worship" and "Emma" together in the same sentence.

Prior to Emma's arrival, Ryan had Mommy's attention most of the time. After all, Kyle was older and let's be AWEnest, Kyle was easier. Ryan struggled with sensory overload which lead to meltdowns. Ryan had a hard time communicating, which lead to frustration and subsequently, more meltdowns. In those early years, with all those meltdowns (Ryan and mine), we were more like a run for your life Chernobyl Disaster than a happy go lucky family. So, for a kid who craved routine, who survived on same, and who counted on Mommy to get him safely through his day, a new baby was a swell idea! Poor guy. Ryan had no idea what he was in for, and quite frankly, neither did I.

When Ryan came to visit Emma and I in the hospital after Emma was born, he literally threw a stuffed animal on her head and he did not acknowledge her presence. He was more interested in the buttons that raised and lowered the bed, the nurse call button (we almost got thrown out) and the cookie I had on my tray from lunch. This "pretend she doesn't exist" routine lasted a few weeks, until one day Ryan decided enough was enough and he locked his traitorous mother and screaming, smelly baby sister outside twice in one day.
 
It was a sticky, humid, beautiful summer day. The kind of day you appreciate in mid-August because you know all too soon, the heat and warmth of summer will soon be replaced with the crisp, cool days of fall. As I sat on the porch swing, sniffing my new baby's head, taking in the fading days of summer, I smiled happily thinking all was right with the world. My smile was quickly replaced with a puzzled expression at the slight "click" I heard at the back door. I saw a flash of red run past the window and I knew in an instant, that "click" was not the sound of summer wishing me well and locking me out, it was my darling son locking me and his baby sister out of the house...with not another soul inside the house.

I slowly got off the porch, trying not to jostle my sleeping princess and went and knocked on the door. "Hey baby, will you unlock the door and let sissy and I back in?", I said sweetly while peering through the window. There Ryan sat on the couch blatantly ignoring me while he happily played on his Leapster. "Ryan let Mommy in", a little more sternly. Ryan got off the couch and I immediately felt relief since I assumed he was coming to open the door. Nope. Ryan climbed on the back of the love seat, looked me in the eye (no trouble making eye contact in this situation) and shook his head no. Well, suffice it to say, that the postpartum hormones kicked in at that point, "Open the #*%$*%# door right #*%$%# now", as veins bulged out of my neck. Still, Ryan sat on the couch, shaking his head back and forth. No way, was his evil mother, who ruined his world, and that no good, smelly, loud, baby getting back in the house. Not until I called Dan, who had to come and let us in, not once, but twice (hormones, remember?). Yeah, it's pretty safe to say that Ryan did not "worship" his sister Emma the way he did big brother Kyle. She was a disruption...a change...a deal breaker. 

Over the years, Emma has felt this preferential treatment for Kyle over her when it comes to Ryan's love and affection. Most days she accepts it, and other days, it breaks her sweet, sensitive heart. I once found a birthday card Emma had made for Ryan crumpled up and stuffed under her bed. Drawn on computer paper and carefully folded in half, was a 4 year old's exact replica of our backyard with a stick figure of a Emma and Ryan happily swinging together, which at the time, rarely ever happened. The crayon strokes spoke volumes of this little sister's true desire, to have her brother interact with her, to have her brother play with her, to have her brother look at her, the way he looked at Kyle.  When I asked Emma why she didn't give it to Ryan, her dejected little shoulders shrugged and she said, "Because he will think it's stupid.". I told Emma to give it to Ryan anyway. Ryan looked at the card, tossed it on his dresser and said, "It's not my birthday anymore" and went back to his game. As much as I wanted to smack Ryan on the head with the card, I tried to explain how much love and time Emma had put into making his card and that his actions hurt Emma's feelings. This past Valentine's Day when Emma made a card for everyone in our family, except Ryan, I didn't need to ask why and I didn't insist on her running up to her room and making him one. Ryan would have thought the card was stupid (again), unless of course Emma had taped candy to the card. Ryan loves his sister, he just doesn't communicate that love in a way that Emma understands...yet.

Although I have explained autism to Emma and I have read books about autism specifically written for siblings of an autistic child, it's hard for a 7 year old's head and heart to grasp. AWEnestly, some days it's hard for a 44 year old mother to grasp. It's difficult for Emma to understand why Ryan doesn't hug and kiss her like Kyle does. It's hard to understand why cards and pictures made with love are rejected or ignored by him. It's hard to understand why she can connect with with every person she meets, but, not the one person she really wants to...her brother. Then along comes a guy named Steve with his blocks made of cobblestone, dirt, and clay as well as a pick axe and sword to keep the creepers and zombies out of their carefully constructed, mutually adored, virtual world and block by block, a connection has been made. 

Who knew the phenomenon called Minecraft could not only build homes in virtual lands, but, Minecraft has helped build a relationship between a brother and sister that once seemed as unlikely as a creeper and zombie sitting down for afternoon tea. A bridge has been built that not only connects their virtual worlds, but, has also connected their hearts. Emma had to go to a deserted world and dig deep to find the proper materials to build a pick axe that was strong enough, and unique enough, to finally break through the wall of autism and find her brother. And Ryan, who for so many years, kept building his house with thicker, stronger bricks, finally let his little sister in and has promised her that he will continue to do so, as long as she doesn't chose a user name that is "stupid and ridiculous". 

Now I'm the creeper standing outside their real world, outside Ryan's bedroom door where they play Minecraft for hours, hoping that neither one of them senses me and comes at me with their diamond sword. As I slowly crack the door while creeping, I see Emma on the top bunk, the glow of the iPad illuminating her smiling, happy face. On the bottom bunk is Ryan, wrapped from head to toe in his Angry Birds blanket, the only sign that someone is under the blanket is the perfect British accent coming from Ryan's mimicking lips. As an unwanted, spawned creeper, I quietly and stealthily push the bedroom door open wider, risking my safety by breaking the darkness with the hallway light in my attempt to get even closer to this somewhat magical moment. As I hold my breath, trying to stay hidden, I finally hear, with no trace of Stampylonghead's British accent, Ryan yell, "Hey Emma, can you come into my world?". As I stifle my tears at the deeper meaning to those long awaited words, I swear Emma feels the dual meaning too. I can almost feel the joy emanating from Emma's heart as she happily yells back, while tap, tap, tapping her iPad, "I'm coming Ryan! I finally found you in your world!".

I recognize that when the Minecraft obsession ends, so may the intensity of the connection, but, for now, Ryan is not locking his little sister out on the back porch...he has finally...finally, let her in. I hope that whatever zombies and creepers lie ahead in the real world, Ryan will tackle them with a diamond sword in one hand, while holding onto his little sister with the other, because alone he can build a shelter, but, together they can build a fortress. A fortress that hopefully, will keep out their mean, old, creeper mother who makes them occasionally leave their virtual world for the real one.

They say that French is the "language of love", due in part to the stereotype of the French as hopeless romantics and in part because people speaking French just sound sexy. If the French are such masters of love, then don't you think it's ironic that it was the French who came up with a game of love that determines if the object of your affection returns your affection based on flower petals and chance? Come on French people, don't you have something a little more romantic or statistically sound than petal plucking? I remember regularly raiding my poor Grandmother's flower beds for daisies as I plucked petal by petal, mumbling "he loves me, he loves me not" while picturing myself as "Jill" and having Shaun Cassidy "walk me home" while singing Da Doo Ron Ron to me. If only love was as easy as plucking daisy petals.

I remember back in my early Google obsessing days, when I would enter "signs of autism" in the search bar ten times a day, I would typically stumble upon phrases such as "fails to show emotion", "does not reciprocate emotion", "egocentrism", and "fails to show empathy". The name autism itself comes from the Greek word "autos" which means self, which just increased my Googling anxiety. My brain would start on it's obsessive train of thought and it was like a full steam ahead locomotive. Is Ryan only aware of himself? Is Ryan unaware of my love for him? Can't Ryan feel how much I love him? Is Ryan unable to feel happy, or sad, or scared? Does this autism thing mean Ryan doesn't, or can't love me? Why I would go back to this agonizing searching ten times a day is beyond me. I guess I hoped to eventually find a website that negated all this "lack of feeling" fear I had. So, I just kept Google searching, looking for the words, "He loves me".  Little did I know, the proof of Ryan's love was in the hand that I held, the brief kisses that I got and the snuggles that he allowed me to give him. My "proof" was standing right in front of me.

One of the biggest misconceptions about people living with autism is that they don't feel or express emotions...an almost robotic type personality. People with ASD feel the same emotions you and I do, they just may express or communicate those emotions differently. That difference doesn't mean people with an ASD feel any less heartache, joy, disappointment and love than any neurotypical person. In fact, I believe Ryan feels more than the average person because he is so extremely sensitive, but, how those feelings, those emotions are expressed may look much different than what someone without an ASD has come to expect. 

Many people with an ASD are also able to understand the emotions of others if those emotions are exhibited in a direct way such as laughter, crying, or yelling. Ryan has a hard time with more subtle emotions that are evidenced through body posture, tone of voice, and facial expressions. Ryan can easily recognize my angry "freaking out" emotion, by my shouty voice, the steam rolling out of my ears, and the spittle flying from my mouth. Ryan also understands that my tears equal sadness which, depending on what my tears are for, may cause him to feel sad too. And sometimes, when I am laughing, Ryan laughs too, then wonders why he is "fake laughing when it feels uncomfortable". Although identifying such extreme emotions comes easily for Ryan, he may not be able to recognize the sarcasm dripping from my voice when he asks for his fourth Oreo and as I once again relent to his poor eating habits respond with, "Why not?". Ryan happily grabs the Oreo and loves me for what he perceives is my lack of concern in him eating yet more trans fat. Ryan also may not recognize if my shoulders slump when I'm feeling dejected by Shaun Cassidy after my petal plucking assured me that Shaun Cassidy, "loves me not". Ryan's struggle with recognizing these emotions is more about a lack of ability than a lack of feeling. 

Ryan's responses to other people's emotions almost has a direct correlation to how connected he is with a person. Ryan certainly understands sadness when he hears a story that is sad, but, if that story doesn't directly effect him, he may not respond in what most of us would believe an "appropriate" way. Perfect example. Last week there was a story that went viral on social media about a father who found out he had terminal cancer. Once this father received his grim diagnosis, he decided to write 856 notes to leave in his young daughter's lunchbox, so she would have a note from him every day until she graduated from high school. As I read the story, I began to cry and was so overcome that I left out a little sob. Ryan immediately came to me, got all up in my face (literally our noses were almost touching) and said, "What's going on here?" obviously concerned that I was upset. I shared the story with Ryan and instead of saying, "Wow, that is sad!" or perhaps getting a little choked up himself, he immediately said, "touching moment, touching moment" in his very best Goldmember voice from Austin Powers. Needless to say my tears were quickly replaced with hysterical laughter. Ryan knew the story was indeed a "touching moment, touching moment", and I'm sure in his mind he thought how sad it would be if his father was sick and dying, but, the story wasn't about Ryan or his dad or anyone that Ryan personally knew, so the story had very little emotional impact on him.

In the book, "Look Me in the Eye" by John Elder Robison, there is a section in the book when Mr. Robison discusses the perceived lack of empathy and emotions of people with an ASD. He tells of a time when he overheard his mother and her friend discussing a child who had recently been struck and killed by a train. Mr. Robison explained that upon hearing this news, he felt relieved that it wasn't him or his brother who had been killed by the train, so, he smiled. Since Mr. Robison was unable to communicate his thoughts and feelings, his mother and her friend just saw him smile and thought he was a psychopath for grinning about a child's accidental death. In his mind, Mr. Robison didn't know this child, so he did not feel terribly sad. Mr. Robison explained that when he was younger, he often felt people who cried about stories that involved strangers, were being fake, because why would you cry about someone you don't know? Just like Ryan's "touching moment", Ryan didn't know this dying man who was writing notes to his little girl, so although Ryan "got it", although Ryan "felt it", how he communicated it was not what most would expect as a typical or "appropriate" response. For Ryan, and many kids like him, it's all about the connection. When we lost a beautiful dear friend of ours, at the incomprehensible, inexplicable age of 8, through his hiccuppy sobs Ryan said, "But, she barely lived". Four powerful words that my boy communicated, that my boy understood, that my boy felt to the deepest part of his soul for people he knew, for people he loved, for people with whom he had a connection.

Yes, Ryan "feels". He feels anger, sadness, betrayal, disappointment, anxiousness, joy, love, and jealousy. Ryan also recognizes these emotions and he cares about those feelings in the people he loves, the people he trusts, and the people who love him. Ryan's feelings are not impaired, diluted, or inappropriate, but, sometimes, how Ryan communicates his feelings do not fit into what most of society believes is "acceptable" or "appropriate". I wonder who ever made up the rules of just how a person is suppose to communicate their feelings...not your feelings, not your grandma's feelings, their own individual, unique feelings. 

It was once suggested to me that perhaps Ryan would do better communicating his feelings to a therapist who specializes in working with kids with an ASD. I'm not saying that it isn't a good idea, for sometime down the road, but, for right now, here is EXACTLY how I'd imagine Ryan doing in a stereotypical therapist setting:

Therapist: "So Ryan, would you like to lay down on the couch and relax while we talk?"
Ryan: (in a disparaging, how could you be so stupid and still be a doctor voice) "Why 
          would I do that? It's 4:00 in the afternoon and I don't lay down until 10:00
          at night in my bed, at my house, with my Angry Birds blanket and my pillow!"
Therapist: "Ok, fine, then why don't you tell me how you feel Ryan?"
Ryan: "Well I feel scratchy from these jeans my mom made me wear today and I feel 
          blind from the sun coming in your window and I feel dry from the heat in this 
          office.
Therapist: "Well, how do you feel on the inside Ryan?"
Ryan: "Well, right now I have a cold so I feel kind of juicy (yes, this is a word for 
           snotty) and my guts feel kind of gassy."

This conversation would be followed by the sound of my money flying out the therapists window. 

Ryan has feelings and he understands feelings, he just sometimes struggles with the language of feelings. I have always been so blessed because Ryan is very affectionate with me...he hugs, he kisses and yes, he tells me "I love you so much Mommy". Some kids with an ASD have a much harder time expressing their feelings and allowing hugs, kisses and cuddles. This does not mean they don't feel love and they don't know love....they just struggle communicating that love in a way a neurotypical person, would prefer, but, for a child with an ASD, the way they love, the way they express emotion, feels perfectly "normal" to them. There are occasions where I am almost knocked to the ground with one of Ryan's hugs and there are times when my arms are quickly brushed away, perhaps at a time when his overloaded system is feeling too juicy, too scratchy or too gassy. For Ryan, some days, "He loves me", some days, "He loves me not" (yesterday when I forgot him at school, it was clearly a "not" day which is another blog post entirely). 

Please don't ever think that people with an ASD don't feel like you do, because they do. They may not say it, they may not show it, but they FEEL it, so don't ever, ever sell them short. John Elder Robison said, "Autism is a COMMUNICATION disorder, not a "lack of feeling" disorder". Ryan's language of love may vary from mine and yours and chances are, he will not be the next French Casanova, but, I promise you, that even Ryan could have told the French that petal plucking is an "utterly ridiculous" way to determine if someone loves you. Although, Ryan could look at a flower and in an instant determine the number of petals and whether I should start with "He loves me" or "He loves me not" to get my desired answer about his love for me, Ryan would probably skip all that nonsense and in his best Austin Powers voice tell me, "Yeah baby". Yep, he loves me.