I've been out of touch again because we've been on Spring Break. It wasn't that we didn't have Internet access; the condo where we stayed had wireless high-speed Internet. It wasn't that I purposely took a break from electronics in an effort to reconnect on a more personal level with my family – as much as I'd like to claim that as the reason. In fact, the reason I have not been blogging is #1 on my list of “A few things Mama learned during Spring Break 2011 ...”

1. You have to be able to hear yourself think in order to write.

Who would have thought? I had all these wild and crazy ideas about our vacation at the beach ... before we actually left. As I packed swimsuits and running shoes and sunblock, I imagined myself starting each day with a meditative walk on the beach, followed by a trip to the spa downstairs where I would work out for a full hour before hitting the sauna. In my mind's eye, I topped off this indulgence in self-care with a full body massage and pedicure. Which brings us to ...

2. After 24 hours with my kids at the beach, I want to work out like a hole in the head.

And as for the sauna: HA! I was lucky to have time for a shower. The closest I got to a pedicure was rubbing my feet on the bottom of the pool while carrying a child on my back.

But it was phenomenal week. Last year at this time, we had a “stay-cation” for Spring Break. We just didn't feel that Billy was ready for sleeping overnight in a strange place. That was a great holiday too; we just stayed in town and “played tourists” in our own city.

This year, though, we took the next step: an actual week-long vacation. Number 3 on my list is something I've stated before ...

3. A year can make a world of difference in the life of a child, any child.

Please remember that -- and help me remember it -- when we get a bit down about the current situation.

We take so many things for granted now that were practically unthinkable a year ago: eating out in (certain) restaurants without meltdown, the kids (mostly) sleeping through the night, Billy being potty-trained, Billy enjoying the company of other children. It's important to look back and realize that, even if it seems slow sometimes, progress is being made. And speaking of other kids ...

Beach sand = yummy tactile input :-)

4. Sometimes when we back off for a little while, nudge our little birds out of the nest, they will make breakthroughs seemingly on their own.

I sat in rapt wonder at a playground this past week as Billy played for a good half-hour with another little boy. They threw a ball back and forth, kicked it (sort of) to one another, chattered away in their own little ways, laughed and had a big sporty little boy-time. He didn't need me to provide appropriate social prompts, encourage him to take turns or guide his behavior in any way.

Of course, this wasn't actually a miracle. It just looks that way sometimes. His devoted team of speech therapists, teachers, aides, behavior therapists, occupational therapists, and family members have been working towards this goal for YEARS.

So team, take a bow -- alongside Billy. Your hard work has resulted in one happy four-year-old enjoying a great day at the playground and making a new friend.

5. Vacation is no time for flashcards.

Of course, that didn't stop me from packing them. I broke out the sequencing cards one morning (3-step cards to help him learn “first, second, last” storytelling), and asked Billy about one simple picture story depicting a boy getting a book off the shelf, “Billy, what does the boy want to do next?” Instead of picking out the picture of the little boy reading, Billy replied, “Go to the beach.” And I got the message.

As a mom, I have to work on “going with the flow” a little bit. It's tough. If you read this blog regularly (and thank you, if you do!), I'm a control freak. I readily admit it. I spend so much of my time trying to be three steps ahead of every meltdown that I forget to relax and let my kids be kids sometimes. I used to have “Every moment can be a learning moment,” as my mantra, but my new mantra is, “Every moment doesn't HAVE to be a learning moment.” Chill out, mom.

6. It's Willow's vacation too.

Wait a minute, I have another kid? Sometimes, it still kinda surprises me, because so much of our planning goes into giving Billy the support he needs in any situation that I forget that Willow has "special needs" too. Even her birthday party gets planned around Billy's schedule, challenges and preferences. She's NEVER managed to blow out her own birthday candles without him getting there first.

Cool digs, huh? Thanks, sis!

Willow's few needs are for a moment of individual attention each day, a handful of birthday cake, and then she's good to go. The rest of the time, she's happy to make it all about her “Bee-dah” too.

7. Billy is pretty funny.

This isn't a revelation, but I was constantly reminded over the past week. One day, he was passing a stone-shaped speaker by the condo pool, he stopped pointed, and said, “I think that's ROCK music!” Then he nearly fell in the pool he was laughing so hard at his own joke. It was a pretty good joke.

8. Autism can still surprise me. And hurt. And confuse us.

Are these the "captains" that have so terrified Billy? Possibly.

Out of nowhere, Billy became incredibly fearful in the middle of our vacation. He suddenly balled up in a corner, with his fingers in his ears, screaming, “I'm so scared!” He stayed that way, off and on, for most of the next 24 hours. When we coaxed him into talking to us, the most we could get out of him was, “I'm scared of captains.” He had seen some cartoon about pirates, and we had been to a restaurant called “Peg-legged Pete's,” neither of which seemed particularly scary.

All we could figure was, like his fear of kangaroos, the fear of “captains” really means something else, some mystery made up of sensory overload, unpredictable schedule and general weariness born of several days of non-stop activity. All we can do sometimes is sit close to them, talk softly and wait it out.

Or, in Dave's case, promise Billy that if we see any captains, we'll “kick them in the peg leg and laugh.” I don't know what sort of effect this is going to have on Billy's ability to empathize with disabled mariners, but as Dave pointed out, peg legs are a bit thin on the ground these days. And it did make Billy laugh.

9. Sometimes autism's surprises are really good ones. For instance, even a naval air museum is fun, exciting and hilarious when viewed through Billy's eyes.

Let's just say that on a really really good day, when I'm in a great mood, I'm faintly ambivalent about naval aviation. The idea of spending an afternoon touring various types of aircraft is likely to send me to my bed with the vapors.

Until I visited one with Billy. He went completely monkey-poop over the National Naval Aviation Museum. He danced around under the giant planes and literally trembled with excitement. He hugged the end of one plane or jet or whatever you call it and said, “I hug you! I love you, big jet!” Then he tried to insist that I close the ceiling bubbly thing over the driver's seat so that “Billy can fly. Billy can FLY!” Dear lord. I don't think so. The sight of an old bi-plane made him fall on the floor in hysterical giggles. Really?!

The museum was free and had an awesome kids play area with a kiddie aircraft carrier, complete with slides (Are there slides on an aircraft carrier? I'd like to think so.) and little helicopter that the kids could sit in. Willow quickly took command of the ship and bossed around children twice her age. I think she has a scary affinity for the military.

So it was a great Spring Break, despite the fact that I never darkened the doors of the spa or the gym and my toes still look like they've been mauled by beavers. As usual, I learned at least as much about myself and what I need to work on as what I learned about Billy. Which brings me to the end of this year's list ...

10. I should really stop making lists.

Who am I kidding? That's never gonna happen.

Sadly, the train broke down halfway around the baseball field.

This past Saturday was the Bash and Dash at Billy's school, the annual fundraiser for the school. (Let's save for another day discussion of the topic of WHY a public school finds itself in a position of having to hold multiple fundraisers.)

Bash and Dash was great: well-organized, fun, and amazingly well-attended. There were pony rides and train rides and bounce houses and carnival games. That's the "Bash" part of the day.

But we started with the "Dash." There was a race for each age group, including pre-Kindergarten, Billy's group.

We had been practicing "racing" for weeks. I'd shout, "Ready, set, GO!" in the back yard and we'd run from one fence to the other. During his ABA therapy, Billy would race Ms. Elyse, I would race Billy; sometimes Ms. Elyse and I would race each other. We talked non-stop about the race.

I still wasn't sure how it was going to work out. Despite all our rehearsal, whenever he hears "Go!" Billy is just as likely to run towards the closest available toy as he is to run towards the finish line. As usual, I debated with myself: about whether introducing him to the idea of competition at this stage was even healthy; about whether the crowds would upset him; about whether he might actually fall and get hurt.

I was ready to pull out of the whole thing. Then I got a package in the mail.

When I opened it, I pulled out a trophy. It was about 18 inches tall and engraved like this:

My mom and dad.

I called them, and sure enough, my mom owned up. "I wanted Billy to know," she said, "that no matter what, he's a winner."

And she was right. Plus, I couldn't back out now that they had invested in what Billy lovingly referred to as "The Statue of Liberty."

Race day dawned bright and beautiful, and we arrived at the starting line with several minutes to spare. Several of Billy's friends turned up, including one beautiful girl who marched right up to him and grabbed his hand in hers, as though she sensed he needed a little reassurance.

As we had practiced, Dave stood with Billy at the starting line, and Willow and I went to the finish. When a volunteer tried to move me out of the way, I explained that my autistic son was planning to run toward me, and if I wasn't standing there, he was very likely to head for that little circle of unattended ponies (the pony rides hadn't started yet). I was allowed to stay.

The boys lined up (girls raced separately). When their little legs started pumping, I couldn't believe how excited I was. I was screaming and crying and shouting for Billy.

Even from a distance, I could see he was beaming with happiness. He was looking from side to side at the crowds lining the race path. Crowds. That was something we hadn't worked into rehearsal.

Billy's in the red shirt!

Rather than run flat-out, he kind of loped along, half-galloping, watching the other kids run in front of him. He likes to chase.

They all crossed the finish line in front of him and I could see Billy laughing with joy. He was happy for them. And he was inches from the finish line.

And then he turned around and headed the other direction.

He was out there on his own, the race was over for everyone else, and he was running the wrong way. I started shouting for him: "Billy, this way! Come this way, baby!"

At that moment, I just wanted him to finish. The other racers in his group were already getting their trophies and medals, and the older kids were already lining up for the next race, but I so wanted Billy to cross that finish line.

No one raised an eyebrow when Billy got the biggest trophy.

Then something beautiful happened. Everyone started joining in. On both sides of the race path, kids and adults were shouting, "Come on, Billy! This way!" And waving him toward the finish line.

Laughing, he turned around. He saw me and Willow. And he started running toward us. As he crossed the finish line and leaped into my arms, there were cheers all around us.

Of course, everyone was proud of the kids who ran the fastest. I would never want to take away from their winning moments.

But at the moment Billy crossed that finish line, we all felt like winners.

As I write this, it's the middle of the night – about 2 a.m. – and I can't sleep because my nose is stuffed up and I have this annoying scratchy cough. We've been through several restless nights now, with one child or the other unable to sleep due to this nasty cold. Now I have it.

I knew three nights ago that I was going to catch this thing. Willow straddled my chest at 2 a.m., nose running, unable to sleep, and after counting my eyes, ears, nose and mouth, she leaned her face very close to mine, took a deep breath ... and sneezed.

Ah, well. It's a mom's job to inhale the germs, gather them in our arms and walk the floor with them all night long, if necessary.

I wish I'd known about the headache a few nights ago. I should have given Willow Tylenol, in addition to the Vick's Vapor Rub. She couldn't tell me that her head hurt, but if my symptoms are anything to go by, she had a killer of a headache.

If Billy wakes up, should I give him Tylenol? I could ask him, “Does your head hurt?” But then again, I can't really rely on his answers for accuracy. Half the time, he repeats whatever words I put his mouth: "Does your head hurt?" Billy: "Head hurt."

If I get sick first, I have a better idea how they're feeling when it's their turn. I know what to watch for, what to medicate, how to empathize. I understand why they're cranky and sleepless and angry, because I've been there.

It's late at night and my mind is wandering; I'm tired and I've just taken cold medicine, and I'm wishing that autism was something I could catch for a few days. I wonder what it would be like to walk in Billy's shoes, live in his world, feel what he feels even for just a few hours.

Maybe if I could think with his brain for a day or two, I could learn to speak his language. And better teach him how to communicate in mine. Maybe I would understand his fear of kangaroos and feel the pain he feels at certain sounds.

And food: Is it the smell or sight or texture of some things that makes him physically sick? I would gladly be sick like him to feel what he feels and just be able to tell him, like I do when he has a cold, “I know. Here, this will make it better.”

I would love to understand his anger. He is a joyful child, and sometimes his anger surprises and confuses me. It seems to come from nowhere, but I know that's not true. Inside his mysterious and beautiful mind, there is a hidden source of his unhappiness, and I'd like to climb inside there, hunt it down, and deal with it, like I try to deal with the sadnesses and angers and unhappiness that I can see.

But most of all, I would like to feel his joy. When he closes his eyes, scoops sand between his fingers, lifts his hands to the sky and belly laughs as the grains filter back to the ground, I would like to inhale that happiness. I would like to dream what he dreams and catch a little bit of the giddiness that bubbles up in him so strongly that he wakes up literally in the middle of singing a song.

I can't walk in shoes. The best I can hope for is to stay close, walk alongside him, so that should he need me, all he has to do is reach out and take my hand.

You have no idea what I'm willing to do for my kids' nutrition.

If you'd seen me in Sonny's Barbecue at lunchtime recently, you would have felt sorry for me. You might have thought that the whitest girl on the planet was auditioning to be one of Beyonce's backup dancers ... in a barbecue restaurant, for some reason.

But my goal wasn't VH-1 stardom. It was to get my son to eat chicken.

When my kids came along, along with the last shreds of my career and my pre-baby body went any sense of shame. I'll make an idiot out of myself to end a tantrum and get a smile. And to get Billy to eat? Well, let's just say I've ruined barbecue chicken for a good portion of Northwest Florida. Billy is the only person alive whose appetite is increased by the sight of my booty dance.

I know some of you are probably thinking, "Maybe you could try just being a better cook." But since that isn't going to happen, we've been going with the dancing.

It's working, though. Last night, Billy ate an actual serving of PEAS!

I'm not talking about peas disguised as something else, peas mashed up and hidden under something else, peas baked into muffins (yes, I've actually tried this – don't recommend it). I'm talking about real, honest-to-goodness straight-out-of-the-can (do they come any other way?) green peas.

Favorite food: raisins

Like many parents of autistic kids, I have become semi-obsessed with food over the past few years. Heck, who am I kidding? I've been semi-obsessed with food most of my life.

My recent food obsession has less to do with fitting into skinny jeans and more to do with seeing that my son gets slightly more nutrition than what is contained in a Pop-Tart.

When Billy was a baby, he would eat anything. About the time he was supposed to move up to chunky foods, though, he started rebelling. Looking back, it should have been a sign, but we just thought it was hilarious when he would suck the cheese off macaroni and spit the noodle out.

He got to the point at which he'd eat macaroni and cheese, but that was just about all. For a while, his entire diet consisted of cheesy mac, cheese sandwiches, raisins (don't ask me), chicken nuggets and fish sticks. Oh, and peanut butter. Big fan of peanut butter.

An unfortunate symptom cropped up about this same time: When he watched other people eat something, particularly if it were some food he disliked, he would upchuck. Hurl. Any time, any where. It was almost as though he empathized so totally with the person he was watching that he imagined that he was eating the food. And so he did what he would have done had anyone stuck a blueberry in his mouth.

We were introduced to the concept of the gluten-free, casein-free diet and tried that for a while. After all, it made sense. If there were ever a child who had self-limited his diet to carbs and dairy, it was my son. The idea that his food might be serving as a kind of drug to him made enough theoretical sense that we decided to give it a shot.

That was six months of living hell. I am not a cook, but I home-made chicken nuggets and fish sticks every week with gluten-free bread crumbs. (My homemade fish sticks bore an unfortunate resemblance to something you might find buried in a litter box.) I baked gluten-free bread and bought expensive casein-free dairy products. The ninth circle of Hell for me would involve being locked away somewhere endlessly rolling up stuff in gluten-free bread crumbs.

Get it? Chreese?! Sounds like trees? Cause that's appetizing on your macaroni. (Appetizing = so gross)

We took food with us everywhere we went. Wanna see some black looks? Start unpacking your own picnic at a fancy restaurant serving Mother's Day brunch.

After six months and no real behavior changes – other than those you get when a child ages six months – we slowly started adding first gluten and then dairy back into his diet. Still, we saw no behavior changes.

Now I'm not saying that I don't believe the diet works for any autistic child. It must: There is a certain portion of the general population that is intolerant to dairy and a small portion with celiac disease. It stands to reason that some autistic people would also suffer those intolerances. When you feel uncomfortable – whether you're sick or tired – it affects your behavior. When Billy's sick, things can go completely off the rails: the echolalia gets worse and he's in a bad mood. I absolutely believe that a child with an intolerance to wheat or dairy would feel much better – and behave much better – if those irritants are removed from his diet.

Billy's just not one of those kids.

We decided to make new foods one of our ABA goals. At the prompting of our awesome therapists from BMC, we implemented an eating routine:

At the beginning of every meal, Billy is offered a non-preferred food (non-preferred = loathed), such as corn or peas, in five super-tiny bites on a separate plate. Next to that plate, is his preferred food. For him, that's ice cream in a little cup. For every bite of the non-preferred food, he gets a bite of ice cream. After he finishes his corn (or 15 minutes are up, whichever comes first), then he gets the rest of his meal (bring on the cheese sandwich!), followed by the rest of his ice cream.

For a few weeks, every dinner (we only did this one meal a day) felt like the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. But he ate his tiny bites in order to get his ice cream.

I was so excited by his progress that when the therapists weren't there, I added extra rewards for each bite: a YouTube volcano video for every bite ALONG with the ice cream, a few minutes on the iPad, and then, I started dancing.

The dancing had a miraculous effect. He started laughing and eating things that prior to this had made him scream like he'd been poisoned. He ate pizza and peanuts and barbecue chicken. He suffered through bananas, though we've since decided he just doesn't like them – which is fine.

I'm trying to figure out a way to disguise nutritious food as birthday cake.

My dancing got more elaborate – until the day our ABA team put the breaks on it. Apparently, dinner isn't supposed to become a poor off-Broadway musical. And apparently, it could cause other problems later if I had to follow him around everywhere doing the Roger Rabbit or The Sprinkler. He's going to have enough challenges in the school cafeteria without having to explain that to his classmates, I guess.

I was convinced that the second I stopped entertaining him with my nightly one-woman show, he would stop eating. In my mind the only thing motivating him was my Humpty Dance.

But no. Ice cream is apparently as motivating as The Worm. Which is probably no bad thing. I got close to injuring myself a couple of times.

One of the biggest realizations I'm come to through this process is that Billy's self-limited diet was, in his case, behavioral and not related to any physiological problem. That being said, I think he started limiting himself because he used to suffer much more pervasive sensory problems related to smell and taste and texture. So we take it very slowly.

And it's been great to see him add things to his diet that he has discovered he likes. I don't force him to eat. I encourage him to eat. My job is “attaboys” and the ice cream currently provides the motivation to try.

Our New Year's resolution has been to eliminate the words “stick” and “nugget” from our kids' diet, to eat fresher, less processed food and to try and bridge the gap between “Billy” food and our food. It's been more successful, more quickly than I could have imagined. Tortellini has replaced mac-n-cheese; soy nuggets have replaced those containing Frankenchickens, and vegetables are easing their way into the rotation on a small scale.

I still occasionally break out my Cabbage Patch, but now we save that for dessert.

Quite a few mom bloggers took a hiatus, or at the very least slowed down their productivity, over the summer. That's one of the reasons The SITS Girls are hosting a Back2Blogging challenge this week. Many of our kids are in school (I'm writing this while Willow naps) so it's time to build some writing momentum.

I want them!! (Thelma and Louise)

AND we get entered into a sweepstakes to win the lovely ladies directly to the left, Thelma and Louise. As my dryer just broke and I've been hanging laundry out to dry all over the house, I would really like to bring either Thelma or Louise (whichever one is a dryer) into my home.

So each day there's a different writing prompt: Today, we're supposed to republish our first-ever blog post.

As soon as I read that, I got kind of a funny feeling in my stomach. I remember that first post. I actually wrote it long before I had a blog. I can't even remember why. My son's autism diagnosis was still new, and the “A” word still had a bitter taste in my mouth:

“Saying the A Word”
(Posted August 2009, written January 2009)

For the past 18 months, we've been chasing a diagnosis for Billy's delays in speech, his differences in motor function, his quirks of personality. My emotions have run the gamut from an extreme skepticism that there's anything "wrong" with him to a growing fear that our early doubts are entirely justified. I've worried, cried, screamed and pleaded with insurance companies, prayed, laughed at myself, and started the process all over again.

Actually, if I'm completely honest with myself, what I've been looking for the past 18 months, is an expert who will say, "Your son is definitely not autistic." I would demand of the therapists and doctors, "He's not autistic, is he?" because to me, that meant the end. That I would lose my son. That he would slip away from me and lose his smiles and affection and love of life -- all of which he has in spades.

Ignoring my crazy eyes and too-long sister-wife hair, the point of this pic is that it was difficult back then to get Billy to look at us.

Well, Billy's three now, and he's not slipping away -- but some of his differences from his peers have become more apparent. He's a bright, beautiful, extremely funny boy. He has an amazing memory and vocabulary. He can answer the question, "What is that?" almost every time. He recognizes animals, plants, people, the planets, food ... but he can't tell you what he did today, what he likes to do, what his name is. He doesn't ask any questions. He spends most of his time repeating entire books, the dialog of a whole cartoon, the question you just asked him.

I know what you're probably thinking: "All kids develop differently. Don't worry about it. Let him develop at his own pace ..." Believe me, I've heard it all. I've said it all to myself.

He can sing beautifully -- perfect pitch and rhythm -- has a catalog of over 100 songs that he knows, and he loves to dance. But he'll have a complete meltdown if you touch his head or offer him anything to eat except macaroni, oatmeal or chicken nuggets. A symptom of his sensory processing problems is his *extreme* clumsiness. It's like he's always looking at where he wants to be, rather than where he is, and he'll fall over the huge coffee table -- which he doesn't see -- in his desire to get to his ball on the other side of the room. He didn't see the edge of the slide, and he fell off and got himself five stitches.

It's not traditional autism. Or at least what I've always believed autism to be. He's loving and affectionate and emotional and funny. But communicating is incredibly difficult for him. It's like he has all this information locked inside him, and he can't make sense of it. So what comes out, instead of what he wants to say, are these things that he's memorized.

So on the advice of a neurologist, we went for an MRI. It was a harrowing experience. The drug they gave him to sedate him had hardly any effect, and when they put in an IV, a meltdown of Armageddon proportions commenced. The results of the MRI: nothing physically wrong. So we get our diagnosis: autism.

I asked our OT, "Is that what autism means now? A lack of brain tumor or seizure disorder or stroke? None of that and you're suddenly autistic?"

She was kind when she responded to me. "No, Amanda. There are benchmarks for communication delay, motor problems and behavior issues -- and Billy meets all of those."

Oh. OK.

I can say it: My son is autistic.

I'm lucky. He's only mildly autistic. Most of his problems are sensory-related. And she's quick to point out that with therapy, he probably has a very good shot at a complete -- or near-complete -- recovery. That's a word that didn't used to be used with autism.

I don't know why the word bothers me so much. It doesn't change the person that Billy is. He's more than a diagnosis. He's a fantastic boy that any mom would feel lucky to love. I guess it's kind of like the way I don't want anyone to know my weight. The number doesn't make me fatter, but I'm not exactly going around with it scrawled on my forehead.

Every day I question every instinct I have, every treatment decision I've made for Billy -- every decision I make full-stop, for both my kids. But I'm starting to see that that's just part of being a parent.

But the A-word doesn't scare me any more. Much.

___________________________________________________________________

It's still not easy, but sometimes he loves the camera! And the camera ALWAYS love him.

I first posted this in August of 2009, but I had originally written it nearly 8 months earlier.

Now I read those words and the anger and fear is familiar to me, but I don't feel that way any more. My recent post, “Life is a Spectrum” is a reflection of how far we've come and how we managed set down a lot of those burdens of anger and stress along the way. It's such an accurate reflection of where we are now that I decided to change the blog to that title.

A few thoughts:

I would never use the term “mildly autistic” to describe Billy any more, nor to I talk about “recovery” any more. You don't "recover" from a differently wired brain. Billy is autistic. His brain is wired differently, in some amazingly wonderful ways, as well as some ways that cause him communication challenges. He's very highly functioning, but that makes him sound like that fancy washer or dryer and doesn't do justice to the fascinating child he is.

I realize now that saying Billy didn't have “traditional autism” was just my way of showing how ignorant I was. There are as many ways to be autistic as there are to be human. And my loving, funny, brilliant, gorgeous, HAPPY son is living one of them.

Also, I now know how much I weigh. Once you've faced your greatest fears for your children, stepping on the scale isn't nearly so scary any more.

Thanks to SITS Girls, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances for this little moment of time travel. It's nice to be reminded of how far my brave little man has come.

"There was never a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him to sleep."
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

An old picture of Billy in front of the "house bed."

My son's in the closet.

Literally. Right this minute he is sitting in his closet with the light on. Playing with socks.

For the last couple of years, he's had this bed that looks like a little playhouse. It has a top bunk. Ahem, it had a top bunk. Now it has a messy storage area full of crap we try to keep out of his reach. Like the ladder to the top bunk.

Billy sleeps in the bottom bunk, inside the house. And for a couple of years, we had to lock it to keep him from getting up at night, turning on the stove, starting the car, or any number of other horrors that went through our heads. The staircase in our new house, also known as the “death plunge,” is so steep I practically have to rappel down it. Sometimes carrying two children. I now have the quads of one of those guys who can pull a tractor with his teeth.

So you can imagine why we didn't want him capering on the staircase in the dark. At the best of times, Billy's progress down a flight of stairs looks a bit like those guys who chase a wheel of cheese down a hill (it really happens – in Dave's home town).

Baby gates don't work. He uses them as hurdles. They keep my mom off the stairs, but even Willow has figured out how to open them.

But we decided that this summer, after his fourth birthday, it was time to set Billy free. We committed ourselves to taking him to the bathroom each and every time he exited his room, which we were sure would be frequently, at least to start. But we theorized, at least he would learn that if he needed the potty, he could leave his room and find Mama and Daddy.

We opened the door of the “house bed,” as we call it, and Dave took the first shift, stationing himself outside Billy's bedroom door, between him and our Black Diamond slope. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that any time he left his room, he would have to go to the potty.

Thirty minutes passed. No Billy. Then forty-five.

Dave put his ear to the door. He could vaguely hear something, so Billy was awake. He pushed the door open and could see a light on under the closet door.

He flung the door to the closet open and a wide-eyed Billy stared up, from his perch on a mountain of white socks. “Back,” Dave commanded him, and Billy dutifully returned to his bed.

I won't bore you with the repetitions of this scene that took place every 15 minutes for the next two hours. We threatened, we locked the closet door (Billy's closet door locks from the outside; we have no idea why – something left by previous owners – we assume they kept rabbits or embarrassing relatives in there). But every time he returned to the closet, pulled out his sock drawer and went to town.

The next night we started the process all over, no longer bothering with sitting outside his door. Clearly, he had no interest in anything outside his bedroom.

On my first “shushing” visit, as we call it, I found him in the closet, wearing three pairs of socks on each foot and pulling on another. Startled, he threw all the socks into the air and ran for the bed.

Take two: Billy hears me coming and runs for the bed before I get to his room. I know what he's been doing because when I enter the room #1: The light is on. And #2: A cloud of white socks comes flying out the window of the house bed, like a junkie trying to get rid of his stash:“I don't know whose #%*@ socks those are, officer. Don't try to pin that #%*@ on me!”

Take three: I find him in the closet, wearing enough socks on each foot that he could safely walk on hot coals. He looks up at me with those big blue eyes welling with tears and says, “Hug,” holding out his arms to me. He's wearing at least six pairs of socks on each arm.

At that point, I gave up. I told Dave he could be the bad guy for a while, because I could no longer keep a straight face.

I woke up at about 3 a.m. that night and had a crazy, obvious, miraculous thought: He put on his own socks.

He put on his own socks. We've been trying to get him to do that for two years! How did that not occur to me?

I fell asleep with a big grin on my face, realizing my glass was, indeed, half-full. My sock drawer might be empty (everyone's sock drawer is now empty, as this temporary obsession has spread throughout the house) but my cup runneth over.

Debbie Yost, mom of three daughters, including one with Down's Syndrome, started a great tradition on her blog Three Weddings: Ability Tuesday. On the first Tuesday of each month, she writes about her daughter's ABILITIES, rather than her challenges. What a beautiful idea, I thought.

So, of course, I'm going to steal it. No, not steal it ... pay homage by copying the idea blatantly.

Today is Tuesday and here are 10 things Billy can do much better than I can:

1. Sing. His voice is beautiful, and he adds a soundtrack to everything. His voice is pitch-perfect and he gives equal airtime to music composed by Dvorak (a current favorite) and Elmo (eternal).

2. Keep rhythm. Ask his Kindermusik teacher, Mrs. Jaci: His sense of rhythm is freaky-good. Insanely, we bought him a drum set for Christmas, though he will happily drum away on anything: table, chairs, microwave door, windows!

3. Remember people. It's not names he zeroes in on; it's usually some detail of his first encounter with someone, a detail that they might not even remember themselves. If you had a dog with you the first time he met you, even if it was six months ago and you were just dogsitting, you better be prepared to explain the absence of said canine on each subsequent encounter with the Billster.

4. Remember ANYTHING. Song lyrics, movie dialogue, the complete text of books he's only heard a couple of times. He has a media library in his head that I often wish I could tap into, particularly when someone is boring me (see #8).

5. Get his way with my mother. Where was this push-over when I was growing up?

6. Climbing. He's half mountain goat, half squirrel.

7. Dance with his heart and soul in it. Let me tell ya: The boy puts the “bust” in “bust a move.”

8. Entertain himself when people around him are boring. I wish I had the guts to just completely check out the moment someone starts boring me. And start singing my favorite song loudly in their faces. Or dancing with abandon for no apparent reason. Or pull their cell phone out of their purse and start screaming for them to show me the “Angry Birds game!” Kids are awesome and they don't even know it.

9. Escape from his clothing. Oy vey! Can I say that even though I'm not Jewish? Because the situation warrants it. If you don't believe me, click here for our trials and tribulations with our young Houdini.

10. Make Willow laugh. They have their own language. He only needs to look at her in some inscrutable way and she just falls over in hysterical giggles. She adores him and he can't make a step without her at his heels, just waiting for the next hilarious and fascinating thing her brother will do for her.

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away." -- Henry David Thoreau

I never used to think of Tallahassee as a rainy place, but man, if my kids don't get more outside time, one of us (or maybe all of us) is gonna lose it.

At least, that's how I felt until I discovered Carole Stock Kranowitz' book The Out of Sync Child Has Fun. Her earlier book, The Out of Sync Child, completely opened my eyes to my autistic son's sensory processing problems. If you aren't familiar with sensory processing disorder (SPD), it occurs when an underdeveloped nervous system can't make sense of the sensory input it receives. Autistic children are often afflicted with sensory problems, but SPD can be a standalone disorder in some kids.

A child might have difficulty taking in sounds, for instance, analyzing them and assigning more importance to human voices than other background noises. Another child might be “tactile defensive,” making human touch almost unbearable to them. The Out of Sync Child described these dysfunctions and how a parent could use a "sensory diet," a daily dose of the appropriate amount and kind of sensory input, to help regulate a child's nervous system.

Billy has some minor issues with his sense of gravity which results in him craving movement and impact. He also has some tactile defensiveness, specifically related to his head. Smells and tastes affect him in strange ways sometimes, as so certain sounds and lights. By focusing on a sensory diet, a large part of which involves giving him plenty of time and space to run off nervous energy, he can manage these issues to the point that you might not even notice them on a good day.

Rainy days, though, are a challenge. But The Out of Sync Child Has Fun provides parents with fun activities that provide that sensory input inside and outside. Depending upon your individual child's needs, you can choose an activity that engages that sense. For instance, if you have a child who needs to "crash and bang" to organize his/her balance and movement (vestibular and proprioceptive) systems, you can play the "Jack and Jill" game. Touch (tactile) sensitivity can be addressed by playing with "Unpaint." And oral-motor skills can be practiced with "Puffin' Stuff."

Almost all the materials are readily available either around the house or at your local grocery, craft or hardware store. And the great thing about the activities in this book is that they're fun for any kid. So friends, siblings and classmates will happily play along, not even realizing that their nervous systems are getting a little tune-up. Parents with perfectly normally developing children will find a wealth of fun stuff in these pages to entertain their kids, rain or shine.

Here are a few of our favorite rainy day games for preschoolers (games appropriate to ALL age ranges are in the book):

1. Go Fishing
A variation on a popular carnival game, this activity has you create construction paper "fish," with a paper clip attached to each fish's head, and then "Go fishing" with a magnet attached to the end of a string on your "fishing pole." Gross motor control is practiced as the child steadies the pole and magnet to catch each fish. A variation we've tried with this game is to use the pole to catch other small metal objects (such as his Thomas the Train engines).

2. Box Sweet Box
Every parent who has ever had a large appliance box in the house knows the fascination that it holds for children. Next time, store it somewhere in anticipation of a rainy day. Sometimes when we hit a run of rainy weather, a giant box is the only thing between me and total insanity. "Box Sweet Box" plays on the fact that many autistic kids, and Billy is one of them, are "nesters" who appreciate a quiet place to go. And when they help decorate the box, it feels even more like home. Some great ideas that Kranowitz adds include opening the ends and attaching several boxes together to make a tunnel; uses a flashlight to explore and decorate the inside of the box; and depending upon your confidence in your art skills, turning the box into a puppet theater, store, castle or rocket ship to encourage make-believe play.

Pre-writing and writing skills can be practiced on the surface of the box, as vertical surfaces (like easels) are often easier writing surfaces for kids with sensory issues. Crawling in and through the box works gross motor coordination, and of course, a quiet place to nest and rest is a handy tool for any child on the spectrum. (Obviously, this activity doesn't help a child with a fear of small places.)

3. Jack and Jill
Most kids like to crash and bang. Sensory seekers, like my Billy, need to do it. Kranowitz' "Jack and Jill" activity is good for inside or outside. Outside, you would construct a "hill" with a board elevated on one end, followed by a "crash pad," or soft place to land. Indoors, we use my inclined aerobic step (I have the Transfirmer, which is secure in an inclined position), followed by a folded up mattress topper that Billy uses as his crash pad. A bean bag also works. He carries a plastic pail "up the hill" as we recite the rhyme, stomping in rhythm and then delightfully crashes on the floor when Jack "falls down and breaks his crown" with Jill (played by Mama) tumbling after. He can do this 5,000 times without tiring of it. (My personal limit is about 12.)

4. Puffin Stuff
At its most basic, this one is super-simple. You just need a straw and a cotton ball and, as Kranowitz explains, and by blowing the cotton ball across a table, you can exercise the muscles in the face that strengthen the repiratory system and speech articulators. But you can make "Puffin Stuff" as complicated as you like, including different objects to move with the straw, like empty plastic bottles, Ping-Pong balls, feathers, golf balls, tissue, marbles -- and even some things you know will be difficult to move, so that you can discuss why certain things move and others don't. You can have races, create obstacle courses for your objects -- the sky's the limit.

5. Hammer and Nails
Also fairly easy to set up (hammer + nails in log = hours of fun), this one should obviously be closely supervised to ensure that objects other than the log don't get nailed. You'll need to start the nails for your child until they get the hang of it, but if you have a "busy beaver" in your house, this one is a winner. The impact of it really seems to be a great stress reliever. I think adults could get a lot out of this one as well.

If you aren't comfortable with the idea of nails, Kranowitz suggests an alternative: toy hammer, golf tees and an inverted egg carton or a pumpkin into which to pound them.

There are a jillion ideas in the Out of Sync Child Has Fun, complete with recommended supply lists and easy-to-follow illustrations. These are just a few of our favorites, but I'd love to hear about yours.