Billy has a fish named Eric. It's a homicidal maniac that killed its three tank-mates, but that's a Halloween story. Or maybe a Christmas story, since he got the tank and fish for Christmas.

But anyway, this is a heart-warming Valentine's Day tale.

Today, Billy had group therapy. A wonderful program at the FSU Speech and Hearing Clinic, group therapy allows him to get together with two other guys about his same age, and each of them have a grad student speech therapist assigned to them, and together they work on group interactions. They play games together, share snacks, complete projects.

Because Monday is the big V-day, they made Valentine's cards together. Great idea!

And this scene, worthy of a Hallmark movie, unfolds ...

INT. THERAPY WAITING ROOM – AFTERNOON.

Moms wait, purses in lap, staring at the clock as the final minutes of group therapy tick away. (Actually, we just barely made it back from Starbucks around the corner in time to pick up our kids before they locked the building.)

Beautiful Boy #1 – we'll call him CUPID – comes barreling into the room. He spots his mom and hands her his home-made card.

CUPID: I love you, Mom!

All the moms are choked up as she gives him a big hug and they admire his handiwork together. Heck, I want to hug Cupid.

CLOSE ON ME

Expectant grin on my face.

ANGLE ON WAITING ROOM DOOR

As Billy comes barreling in.

CUT TO:

CLOSE ON MY FACE

Expectant grin is wider. It's my turn. MY TURN!

ANGLE ON BILLY

As he drops his home-made card on the floor and heads for the water fountain.

CUT TO:
ME

Grin falters... but then I take a deep breath. It's OK. I've still got the card. I plaster the grin back on my face and reach for the card.

ANGLE ON THE CARD

As I pick it up and see this:

I swear to you I saw that evil fish laughing at me tonight.

From the time Billy could walk -- at about 9 months -- he's been falling over. He was like a little Charlie Chaplin, silently stumbling through one wacky pratfall after another. At first, I thought his big head was throwing him off balance. At nine months, most babies are all head and most aren't walking. He ran constantly, in this falling-forward-head-first posture that looked a bit like somebody trying to balance a pumpkin on top of a pole.

For a long time, I firmly believed that Billy had a balance problem. I was assured by multiple occupational therapists that the fact that he stumbled and fell frequently was a sign that his vestibular system was screwed up and he found balance difficult. His underdeveloped nervous system couldn't process the information about spacial orientation, leaving him constantly off-balance.

At the age of four, Billy still stumbles and falls frequently. But we're starting to realize that his biggest problem is quite simply looking where he's going. He'll be looking at some kid riding a bike behind him while he walks in the opposite direction and directly into a tree. He used to look at his feet while attempting to peddle a tricycle - and he'd drive it into the wall.

However, we got him a Razor scooter this summer and realized that when he wants to, he can balance extremely well. And when he pays attention, he doesn't run into stuff. I've mentioned here before that he can zip in and out of furniture, stop on a dime, and pump one foot up in the air behind him while circling the dining room table.

About a month ago, he also started a special needs gymnastics class. Last Saturday, the coach asked him to walk across the high balance beam. He did it, holding Dave's hand, without a problem.

Then she upped the ante a bit and asked him to kick as he walked across the beam. Again, no problem. Taking it one step further, she asked him if he could do the same thing, only going backwards. Everyone was astonished when he kicked his way backwards across the beam without a single stumble.

Never in a million years would I have believed he could be that good at something requiring that kind of balance. Never in a million years could I have done that. (At left, you'll see a video of Billy's first ever attempt on the balance beam. Unfortunately, we didn't get his most recent triumph on video!)

Naturally, we have to rely on experts -- doctors, therapists, teachers -- to learn how to best support our kids on the spectrum. But sometimes, I've found, I can learn the most simply by watching Billy. And as time wears on, I've started to trust more what I see with my own eyes and to challenge assumptions made on the basis of a short, or otherwise limited, observation.

Balance and coordination are common problems among autistic kids. But my child is as individual and unique as a normally developing child; his support/education/therapy needs to be carefully coordinated to fit him as an individual -- and that plan may, and should, change over time as he changes. If we continued to focus on Billy's vestibular system, rather than on strengthening his visual tracking, we could waste a lot of time. And fail to address a fundamental problem that could affect his ability to read, write ... and avoid trees.

It could be that Billy's nervous system has matured a lot in the past two years; I'd certainly like to think so. Maybe the Razor scooter has a miraculous effect on balance (Note: I do not actually believe this). Regardless, we're going to work on his visual tracking through use of simple puzzles, books and other hands-on toys and put a check-mark (for now) next to "balance."

And prepare for Olympics 2020!

(By the way, if anyone has any good suggestions for exercises/tools that help improve visual tracking, I'd love to hear them!)

Pass the cookies. I need to hate some more.

I'm fighting a familiar super-villain this week: Hate. And his sidekick: Blinding Rage.

Hate kinda left me alone before I had kids. I disliked or was irritated by certain people – or more specifically, the things certain people said and did and the way those-who-will-remain-nameless block the whole aisle at the grocery store AS THOUGH NO ONE ELSE HAS TO BUY CEREAL!! (deep breath)

I guess I came pretty close after 9/11. Strangers are easier to hate, especially homicidal maniacs who murder thousands of people. But I was too consumed by deep sorrow and fear and confusion to be able to muster up the energy for a whole lot of hating at the time.

Because hating takes a lot of energy. When I really get down to the business of hating, I don't have the energy for anything else. I pretty much have to lie down and just hate full-time. And eat. I can hate and eat at the same time.

“Your policy has no autism benefits.”

This news totally flattened me. I am not someone who is good in a crisis; I get hysterical and completely fall to pieces and Dave is left with the job of putting the pieces back to together AND dealing with the crisis. Only there aren't clear-cut pieces like in a puzzle; supporting me in crisis is more like trying to scoop up a mud puddle with your bare hands. If the mud puddle can yell at you.

As I shared earlier this week, we're trying to get ABA therapy for Billy. While we can get speech and occupational therapy – because those therapists can use a medical code for filing – we are not entitled to behavior therapy, because that's not, they tell us, medical – at least not for members of groups with less than 50 members. If you're a member of a group with 50 or more people, the rules change.

Meanwhile, Billy has lately been showing a high level of anxiety and some aggression at times, which is affecting his ability to eat and sleep and function at school. More speech therapy is not going to help that.

Every medical expert we've seen has agreed that what Billy needs right now, what has the greatest chance of success, is an ABA intervention. And the earlier he gets that therapy, the better he's going to be at handling the inevitable crises and changes that come up in life. Essentially, the more therapy he gets now, the less he'll probably need in the long run.

I'm sorry. I don't feel very funny today. I feel guilty that I didn't somehow plan for this better. I don't know what we could have done, but I guess we should have sat down, before having a child, and gone over every possible outcome: “And if he has a genetic abnormality? Is that covered? What about TB? MS? Parkinson's? Ebola?” And then buy supplemental insurance for every gap in coverage we find.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel: My mom – who, by the way, is awesome in times of crisis, and it's probably her fault that I'm so useless because I'm so used to being so expertly cared for – got on the phone to Florida KidCare. That's the insurance that's available to all kids in Florida, regardless of their families' ability to pay.

They told her that, while we'd have to pay the full premium amount (about $120/month), autism is fully covered: ABA, speech, OT, you name it.

Now my question: Anyone out there have experience with KidCare? Is it difficult to find a provider? Any input would be greatly appreciated before we make a decision about moving Billy's coverage. If this works out, I will be the biggest proponent and advocate for KidCare in the Sunshine State.

Please stop back by tomorrow when I promise I will rise from the couch, dust off the crumbs and try to crawl out of my hate hole.

INT. HOME OFFICE - DAY

Hi, I'm Bandit. Press 1 to automatically deny your own claim. Press 2 if you'd like me to do it for you.

MONTAGE: Dave is on the phone, on hold, for what seems like hours. We can hear the hold music playing on the speaker phone in the background. He leans back in his chair, drums a pen on his desk, eats chips, reads football news online, creates a chain of paperclips, etc.

SPEAKER PHONE: Major Health Insurance Company. How may I help you?

Slams his chair down and picks up the phone.

DAVE: Yes! Finally! I'm calling because we were told that you're denying coverage of our son's ABA therapy.

MAJOR HEALTH INSURANCE COMPANY: Policy number please.

Dave gives her the policy number, the group number, the social security numbers of various members of our family

(Looooooooong pause...)

MHIC: I'm afraid yours is a small group policy, and therefore, you have no coverage for autism therapy.

(Another long pause.)

DAVE: That doesn't make any sense. We pay higher premiums and have a much higher deductible than large groups.

MHIC: Your policy does not include any autism benefits.

DAVE: Ok, Ok. But he's been getting therapy for the past year and Major Health Insurance Company has been covering it.

MHIC: Not for autism.

(Another long pause.)

DAVE: But can you see that our son has been getting speech and occupational therapy?

MHIC: Yes, I see that.

DAVE: And you've been covering it?

MHIC: Yes, we have covered that therapy.

DAVE: Well, he's autistic. That's why he gets the therapy. Why can't he get the ABA therapy his doctor recommends?

(Another long pause.)

MHIC: The code under which speech and occupational services were filed was not autism.

DAVE: It wasn't? Well, what was it? The code?

MHIC: I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not at liberty to disclose that information.

(Long long long pause. We think we can hear the sound of a man putting his head through a wall in the background.)

DAVE: Let me get this straight. Billy can't receive therapy for autism. He can receive – and has received -- therapy if we call it something different which has a different code. But you can't tell us what that code is.

MHIC: I cannot disclose the codes for which services have been filed in the past.

DAVE: Can I guess?

(Semi-long pause.)

MHIC: Sir?

DAVE: Is the code ABC123?

MHIC: No, sir --

DAVE: DEFEXYZ?

MHIC: Sir--

DAVE: That's not it? Am I getting warmer? Is it the number 42? Is it my phone number? Is it the Da Vinci Code?

MHIC: Sir, I'm afraid --

DAVE: WHAT. IS. THE. CODE????

And that's when the hold music starts again ...

My fellow autism mom, Lynn over at AutismArmyMom, wrote a hilarious and excellent post about the recent experiments in using a Robot named Bandit to teach autistic children. I don't even have to make fun of the concept of robot autism therapists, because Lynn has already done it so well and said everything that needs to be said on this subject.

But as I said to her, rather than use robots for autism, maybe they could hire them to answer the phone at Major Health Insurance Company. I could send Bandit off to work each day. In fact, if my robot was earning a paycheck as a customer service representative, maybe I could afford ABA therapy for my son.

A bit of serious advice to anyone dealing with Major Health Insurance Company: Whatever happens, don't let them drive you crazy. Their mental health benefits are terrible.

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.

Billy started drawing this week. Not just scribbling. Not just stabbing the paper with a pen. Not peeling the paper from the crayons or breaking them or, worse yet, eating them (though we haven't seen that last one in a while, thankfully).

No, he's been drawing. People. People with hair. People with beards. People with arms and legs. And always with smiles.

He and I have a deal. If he goes to the potty, he can watch "Baby Signing Time" while I load the dishwasher. But he has to draw while he watches the TV in his play room. The first time I explained this deal to him, I set up a piece of art paper on his easel (Ms. Stacee, his occupational therapist at school, explained to me that autistic children find it easier to draw on a vertical surface), turned on "Baby Signing Time," and handed him an orange crayon.

"Draw what you see on TV!" I said to him with a bright smile, trying to make it sound like the most fun activity ever.

He gave me a weird look, and I fully expected to come back into the room and find him peeling the crayon while staring transfixed at the TV. I had to get the kitchen cleaned up, though, because we had guests coming so I left him with it.

When I came back into the room, I was totally shocked that he had followed my instructions. To the letter. The entire surface of the TV screen was orange. And he had his eyeball half a millimeter from the screen, trying desperately to see his program through the crayon.

He had drawn what he saw on TV. On the TV.

And he looked up at me like, "Hey, don't look at me. This was YOUR big idea." I couldn't help but laugh.

Over the past few weeks, when he gets his TV time, he's humored me by making a few half-hearted squiggles on the paper. But the big breakthrough moment came when I wasn't looking.

I copied a move that I saw our private occupational therapist, Kathy Merydith, do during one of her sessions with him: I drew three circles on the paper and said, "Now, can you give the balloons faces?" Then I trotted off to the kitchen to get dinner started and left him to it.

Fifteen minutes later, I realized it was way too quiet in the play room. I ducked my head, expecting to catch him in the act of filling the puppets with Moon Sand or running over Willow's baby doll with his fire truck.

But no. He was still drawing. The three "balloons" now had happy faces, green beards and LEGS! With feet! The cutest little "Ls" emerged from the bottom of each head. And a crooked smile adorned each face, along with both eyes and a nose. I called Dave to tell him the news and he confessed that he was more happy and shocked at that moment than he had been when Willow took her first steps. Willow, who already says two dozen words and colors as well as Billy did just two months ago, will probably always have to work that much harder to amaze us. I know that's not great parenting, and the subject of another blog could probably be how to make the "normal" sibling of a special needs child feel "special" herself, so when I figure that out, maybe I'll write about it.

Anyway, over dinner, we all admired Billy's picture again and dubbed it "Three Happy Guys." Over breakfast the next morning, he reached for his sketch pad and furiously filled it with drawing after drawing, which we named "A Pear Takes a Walk," "Clown Face" and "Daddy Needs a Shave."

Of course, the first thing I did was go out and buy him every art supply known to man. I have sketch books of every size, crayons of every texture, shape, color, and surface, including the bath tub, and a variety of paints.

This morning, he sat down with his Pop-Tart and sketch book and began to draw carefully and slowly. First, there is a giant head. Often, this fills most of the available space. Then he made two dashes for the eyes and added a crooked smile and a round nose. "Where are his legs?" I asked. He thought for a second and then added the miniature "Ls" emerging from Mr. Big Head. Then he hesitated, put crayon back to paper and made straight lines emerge from both sides of the head. "Are those arms?" I asked.

"Arms!" he agreed. Then, "He's sleeping!"

You could have knocked me over with a feather. That was the first time he narrated or explained what he was drawing for me.

"Sleeping?" I just repeated.

"Needs a blankie!" he shouted back to me.

"Well, let's draw him a blankie!" I shouted back. Billy grabbed a yellow crayo and drew a roundish blob on the front of Mr. Big Head.

"Needs a pillow!" he shouted again. Intonation, as you might have guessed, could still use some work. While he's starting to communicate great, Billy tends to shout everything as though he's calling a Bingo game. But I was so excited I was shouting too.

We continued like this, with him adding a pillow, "covers," which is apparently different from "blankie," and "Brown Bear" to the bedroom scene. Then he abruptly decided that "Billy Goes to Sleep" was a completed masterpiece and asked very politely, "Can I be excused?" And he ran off to stage a race between Lightning McQueen and Batman until it was time to leave for school.

I just couldn't stop staring at the picture. After he left for school, I Googled "drawing" and "child development" and found this link:

http://www.learningdesign.com/Portfolio/DrawDev/kiddrawing.html

And this description seems to suggest that Billy is right on target, age-appropriate, with his drawing.

That chart also suggested that kids at this age start to work out problems with their drawings, and I wondered if there was anything going on at night that was bothering Billy. He has several “brown bears” that sleep with him and two pillows, and he has plenty of “covers,” so all I can figure is that maybe he wants a yellow blanket. Or to grow a beard.

I love Billy's drawings. And as I looked through the pages and pages that he has filled in his sketch book the last few days I was struck by how all the faces are smiling. I know that's not unusual in children's drawings, but I think it reflects something beautiful about a child's soul. As Picasso said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” I hope Billy never loses that part of himself that sees smiling faces everywhere.

There was a time when I despaired that by the time my son was 3 or 4, he would abandon me in favor of his dad. Because he was a boy, I imagined that eventually, sports would start to infect his brain and he would come to pity me and my sad lack of any kind of ball-playing skills.

He turns four this summer, and Billy's ball games are still very inclusive of those with special needs like myself. "Billy Ball Tag," one of the games he invented, involves me throwing a ball in his general direction and missing, so that he can shout, "You missed!" I got serious skills in Billy Ball Tag.

Then there's "It's a fumble!" which requires one of us to pick up the football (an American football for those of you Brits who still insist on calling the round black-and-white one by the wrong name), running to the other side of the yard and screaming either, "Touchdown!" or dropping it and yelling, "It's a fumble!" When we fumble, we also have to fall to the ground and pretend to cry. It turns out that Billy's understanding of the rules of football are pretty much on par with my own.

Floortime therapy has taught us to follow Billy's lead when it comes to play. He has better ideas for games than anything put out by Parker Brothers. After he gets comfortable with playing a simple game, we try to add a little complication to it that will encourage his desire to communicate.

Dave is really good at this. He invented "Yummy and Yucky" bubbles. Billy dearly loves to have one of us blow bubbles. I've practically hyperventilated trying to keep up with his bubble jones some afternoons. One day, Dave watched Billy pretending to eat the bubbles. He copied him and Billy laughed. So they spent several minutes trying to catch bubbles in their mouths.

Then he started asking Billy, "Is it a yummy bubble or a yucky bubble?" And after Dave "ate" one and declared it "Mmm-mmm, YUMMY!" Billy tasted one, made a face, and said, "Yucky!" and a game was born. Eventually, another layer was added, as we declared bubbles "hot" or "cold," "scary" or "funny," and so on. Beware Billy if he gets hold of an "angry" bubble; he's like the Incredible Hulk.

Sometimes, when we add a complication to a game -- or a "playful obstruction," as Dr. Stanley Greenspan calls it -- we lose him. He just turns his back and moves on to something else. That's the sign that he's not ready to move up the communication ladder any further that day. Or it could just be a sign that our game isn't fun.

Case in point: "Three Little Pigs." Billy loves to act out certain parts of the fairy tale. He likes the part where he hides in his playhouse and I pretend to the wolf banging on the door. He likes the part where he escapes out the window and the wolf has to run after him. He likes the part where the pig jumps into the swing and flies to the moon to get away (a plot twist Billy added to the story). He does not like any attempt on my part to get him to sit down at the picnic table and do a craft in which we build a stick, straw and brick house.

"Stinky Broadfoot," however, is a game that gets more complicated every morning. It started when he climbed into my bed one morning and I told him that he needed to go to the potty with Daddy first and then he could get into "Mama's bed," as he calls it (I'm not sure he knows that Dave also sleeps in that bed). When he resisted, we explained that if he didn't get a new Pull-up, people would call him "Stinky" when he got to school.

Well, there is nothing in this world funnier to Billy than bad smells. He decided his name was "Stinky" and we all three rolled around the bed making faces and complaining about the smell. The next day, Dave adopted the name "Smelly Daddy" and I was "Malodorous Mama." And every day we have to come up with new names for "stinky." Billy has even developed some sort of dance where he holds his nose and waves his other hand back-and-forth in the air around him. God forbid any child at school should ever have some unfortunate gas incident. My child cannot be counted on for any sense of discretion where stink is involved.

As we were rolling around on my bed this morning, contorting ourselves with fits of laughter, I thought to myself that if this is therapy, it sure beats those months when we had him on the gluten-free diet and I spent all my time cooking. Now I can concentrate on developing my skills in "Billy Ball Tag." I'm our team's starting forward this season.

Parenting isn't easy on control freaks. I thought that, like most projects I tackle in life, careful study of the right books would fully equip me for pregnancy and motherhood. Whatever. Let's just say that What to Expect in the Toddler Years should contain the subtitle "In an Ideal World." (The Girlfriend's Guide books may not have prepared me any better, but they at least made me laugh. Hard.)

I like to carefully plan out and schedule my day, make to-do lists - for myself and Dave (oh yeah, he LOVES that) -- prioritize said list and then mark off each item with color-coded highlighters. I love highlighters.

My children like to put handfuls of mac-n-cheese in their pockets, develop strange rashes and get various parts of their bodies stuck in various places in the house five minutes before we need to pull out of the driveway to be somewhere. And those are the easy upsets to deal with. The most terrifying thing about parenthood, the thing I was totally unprepared for, is how vulnerable it makes you feel. Suddenly, the source of all your greatest joy and pain is walking around the world, running into things and people and you can't stop it or control it. I suppose I could wrap them up like mummies and feed them like baby birds but that's generally frowned upon by the best parenting books.

I realized fairly early on that I could either loosen the reins a bit or become a heavy drinker. Instead, when things veer off the rails, I organize.

My favorite tools: Velcro, Ziploc bags, a black Sharpie pen, strips of sticky magnets and index cards. During the long road to Billy's autism diagnosis, I became obsessed with organizing his toys correctly, as though the perfect playroom could "fix" him. I would stay awake at night debating whether the baby doll and bottle I bought for him (to practice imaginative play) should be in the "housekeeping" area, with the play kitchen, or next to the bikes, since his favorite thing to do with the baby doll was run over it with his Big Wheel.

I took a picture of every toy and labeled its position in the toy room with a Velcro-ed picture, so that he could practice returning things to the right place. I used those same Velcro-ed pictures on his picture schedule, a tool that helped teach him about his day and how to make choices.

My organization stress response isn't limited to toys, though. The week Billy started school I was so worried that I labeled every shelf in the kitchen cabinets with index cards; then I get blind with momentary rage if I open a cabinet and Dave has put a plate on the clearly marked "over-sized bowls" shelf. On the rare occasions that Dave and I argue, I reorganize his stuff. I might as well; if he's looking for something, he always asks me where it is, so it might as well be somewhere I put it.

He has said that he's afraid one day he's going to wake up and find himself sealed in a Ziploc bag labeled "Daddy" and Velcro-ed to the wall. And I told him that if I were stressed enough to do that, the bag might not be labeled "Daddy."

I'm probably the worst possible parent to deal with my son's autism; at least that's how it feels most days. It seems that no answers are clear-cut, no treatment is without debate, and the experts can't even decide how best to organize the diagnoses and treatments. (For more on the current debate about the American Psychiatric Association's recommendations, click here.)

Most medical doctors will recommend drugs and pooh-pooh the idea of more holistic approaches, such as the dietary interventions. Most parents, therapists and doctors who are very committed to biomedical (diet, supplements, etc.) interventions refuse to believe that every child can't be helped by those treatments. For every non-invasive therapy we try -- therapeutic listening, brushing, supplements, weighted vests, you name it -- there's a website or anonymous blogger somewhere saying how stupid it is.

I have poured over long lists of symptoms of everything from yeast sensitivity to sensory processing disorder. Some symptoms Billy seems to have, some he doesn't. Some seem to match the symptoms of five or six other allergies or disorders. Many of them instruct me to "watch his behavior" after eating certain things. Well, the same behavior that you attribute to wheat allergy could also be explained away by the fact he didn't nap today, his sister got chewed carrots on his Lightning McQueen car, and I won't let him watch TV. In short, controlling his environment and attributing behavior to one particular thing is next to impossible. He's a three-year-old, not a lab rat.

I thought when we started this process that if I found the right expert, I would get a clear-cut prescription and that would be that. Unfortunately, I found too many experts in everything except my child. It turns out that Dave and I (and my parents) are the only ones truly expert in Billy, what works for him and what doesn't. And even that list changes from one week to the next.

It drives me to distraction. But when the stress gets to be too much, I can always go organize Dave's closet.

Floortime/DIR is our primary therapy protocol for Billy. "Protocol" makes it sound like something instigated by Jack Bauer at CTU, but the great thing about Floortime is that it's more of a "big picture" view, inside which you can continue with speech therapy, occupational therapy, which we're also doing.

Developed by Dr. Stanley Greenspan, Floortime/DIR therapy (DIR stands for Developmental, Individual differences, Relationship-based) is all about creating moments of joy during which you communicate with your child on their level, following their lead. Rather than try to force them to perform a series of tasks, like stacking blocks or sorting objects, your goal is to get the child to connect with people, to desire to communicate. And you create that desire by following their joy.

For instance, if Billy wants to open and close doors repeatedly, rather than try to stop him from doing that, we open and close doors with him. And when he's comfortable with us playing side-by-side, we take it to the next level, creating a "playful obstruction." Dave created the "Open the latch, Daddy," game, putting his own hand on the door, and requiring Billy to ask him to release it, thereby bringing him into the moment.

A couple of great things happened as a result of adopting the Floortime mindset: We surrendered the frustrating process of trying to get him to stop opening and closing doors (which upset him and us) and we connected with our child. I was amazed at how much fun it was to open and close doors the first time those big blues eyes looked up to me and Billy smiled as if to say, "You like this too? Isn't it great?"

We want to teach him that it's more fun, fulfilling, desirable to be connected to people than it is to be lost in his own world. And over the past few months since we first read Dr. Greenspan's book, Engaging Autism, at the suggestion of our occupational therapist, Kathy Merydith at TMH, we have seen huge strides in Billy's connection to people.

He has started reaching out to other children on a regular basis, wanting to play with them, rather than by himself. Some of his social skills need a little honing, but after all, he's still just three years old.

If he runs into another room in the house, he'll call, "Mama, where are you?" In the past, I wasn't even sure if he thought about me when I wasn't there. He regular takes my hand and demands, "Play castle," meaning he wants me to come with him and play with the fort he got for Christmas. And then a few weeks ago, completely unprompted, he threw his arms around me and said, "I love you, Mama."

Now let me put up a big warning sign here: I can't say that Floortime caused my son to say "I love you." We're doing a lot of things, and also, he's getting older. One of our primary frustrations is trying to figure out what works, what doesn't, what therapy (or lack thereof) is resulting in a particular behavior, either positive or negative. Within our Floortime "big picture," Billy has speech therapy (3 times a week at school and once a week in private clinical setting), occupational therapy (once a week at school, once a week private), therapeutic listening (twice a day, 30 minutes per session), music therapy (once/week) and Kindermusik (www.kindermusik.com, therapy for the whole family!).

When I say these therapies operate within the Floortime big picture, I mean that we make sure our goal in every setting is to encourage his connection to people, create moments of joy, and develop his ability and desire to communicate.

That being said, Floortime works (at least, for us) and it works every time. I know that, because my son looks up at me, joy on his face, and makes some new gain in communication every day. Because we're doing the things he wants to do -- opening doors, playing fort, sifting dry rice through our fingers, riding the roller coaster that Nan got him for Christmas (what kid wouldn't like that?!) or simply running around the yard non-stop screaming, "He's getting away!" -- because we're following his joy, he wants to communicate. As a side note, he's almost completely stopped opening and closing doors, opting instead for more creative play.

The upside to this therapy: you can see almost immediate results, depending on the severity of your child's communication challenges and neurological issues, however subtle. Because Billy is highly functioning and very verbal (though most of his speech is repetitive), we get a lot of immediate reward and feedback from this therapy; I can imagine it would be significantly more frustrating with a non-verbal or non-responsive child. By all accounts it will still work, but the gains may be slower than what we've experienced.

More upsides: you can practice Floortime anywhere, as long as you are engaging your child, following their lead and expanding their communication; and once you learn the basic theory, you can do it yourself (essentially, it's free -- the only "training" we have at the moment is a careful reading of Dr. Greenspan's book), but it's certainly more effective if you also have an OT or other therapist skilled in Floortime who can help coach you during sessions, brainstorm new ideas, etc. Both our OT and speech therapist are Floortime-trained, and we also regularly turn to our virtual friends on the Yahoo! Floortime Group with questions and for support.

There are also a couple of great websites that offer training, online and DVD-based, message boards, documents that can help you with everything from preparing for your IEP meeting to locating a Floortime-trained professional. Floortime.org is the website of the Interdisciplinary Council on Developmental and Learning Disorders, founded by Dr. Greenspan and Dr. Serena Wieder and is really just a wealth of great information. StanleyGreenspan.com also offers courses in child development, a selection of Dr. Greenspan's books, and information on the latest research and articles published.

OK, now the downside: If you follow Dr. Greenspan's guidelines, you'll be doing eight Floortime sessions per day, 20 minutes per session. That's in addition to school, organized therapy, etc. I can't say that we hit that goal every day, or even most days. Also, you're supposed to work toward four play dates with a peer each week. We're not there yet either.

Sometimes the book can be a bit vague about how to accomplish certain goals, like how do you follow the child's lead if he keeps flitting from one activity to the next? How exactly do you know when your child is ready for more imaginative play? When it comes to these kinds of specific answers to some of the vague generalities in the book, I've always found the answer in my kid. And to his credit, Dr. Greenspan says that when in doubt, take a step back and watch your child. What is he doing? Where is his joy?

Our plan is fluid, dynamic and ever-changing. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like everyone on our team (and they're a wonderful group) is working toward a common goal. And at the center of that goal is a beautiful, intelligent and thoroughly fascinating child named Billy.