There's a line in the Disney story "Cars" that reads, "Sally was touched." It's the moment when the main car's girlfriend is overwhelmed by emotion when the neon lights of her Route 66 town are lit up for the first time in decades.

Billy loves "Cars." He doesn't call it "Cars," though. He calls it "Mater," after his favorite character. He loves the movie; he loves the books. He loves the matchbox-sized replicas of the characters. He loves his Mater-themed Pullups and his sippy cup with Lightning McQueen on it. If you have a kid going through a Cars phase, at first you consider yourself in luck, because it's everywhere. Then one day, you look around yourself and realize, "It's...everywhere."

So anyway, Sally was touched. Billy repeats this line as he reaches out his pointer finger and pokes me in the nose. "Sally was ... touched." Poke. Again and again. Sally was touched. Poke.

See? He's touching me.

It's almost like he realizes that he doesn't quite get this line. So he's working it out by thinking aloud.

A lot has been written about how literal autistic people can be, how they often don't get jokes or understand metaphor or irony. So I've been going out of my way to explain this line every time it comes up. "Sally was touched," I say, "means that she was happy, that she felt love. She was touched in her heart." And I pat myself on the chest.

Billy stares at my hand patting my chest. He's thinking.

Poke. "Mama was touched." He smiles. And for the millionth time, I wonder how much he actually knows.

It's like when we were practicing egg hunting this week at his friend EJ's house. Billy loves finding the eggs this year. He'll spot one, his face will light up and he'll go tearing across the yard toward it.

Then he opens it up, eats the candy out of it, and leaves the open plastic egg lying in his hiding place. I looked around the yard at one point and saw half a dozen plastic eggs, broken open and still lying in their hiding place, his basket long since abandoned.

I took his hand, led him to a hidden egg, and showed him how to pick it up and put it in the basket. He sighed, and moved on to the next egg, dutifully picking it up and dropping it in the basket. Then he started singing the "Clean up" song while he worked.

Any parent with a child in preschool knows the "Cleanup song:" Clean up, Clean up/Everybody everywhere/Clean up, clean up/Everybody does their share."

Dave watched him for a second and laughed. "You know," he said in his English accent, "I think Billy has a point. Easter egg hunting is a little bit like bleedin' 'clean up, clean up.'"

One of these days, Billy's gonna be watching "Cars" and finally turn to me and ask, "How can a car have a girlfriend? Or a condo in Hawaii? And if they're all cars, who changes their oil? And who installed the hardwood floors and ceiling fans in the court house?"

And then I'll know he's going to be just fine.

We made a few changes to the website over the weekend. I say "we," when I actually mean that Dave made changes to the website while I did 45 tons of laundry. That is apparently what "we" did instead of taking down the "Happy Birthday, Princess" decorations, which are now in danger of becoming a permanent part of our interior design. Well, my birthday is in May so I suppose I could just have the world's first 39-year-old Disney Princess party.

At the right, you'll find a list of the most recent blog posts, as well as what people have had to say about them (under "Comments"). If you want to make a comment, just press the "New Comment" button under a blog post and let me have it!

"News" is a new section we've added, because I got tired of searching for "Autism" and "News" every day, and Dave found this cool site that would let me stream it all directly to my blog.

And on that note, Friday is World Autism Awareness Day, a kickoff to April being Autism Awareness Month.
I know I'm opening a can of worms here, but I have to say that I'm kind of ambivalent about the whole "awareness" months and days and ribbons. Not that I think any of it is bad. I just don't know if that's the best use of money and energy.

We could have a thousand people in Tallahassee get together and do a walk for autism awareness. And that would make a great photo on the front page of the Democrat. And we could all wear ribbons that look like puzzles ... and then what?

While we're doing a walk-a-thon, school budgets are getting cut and there are already fewer speech and occupational therapists servicing more autistic kids in the school system than ever. Or not servicing them, because they just don't have time. Billy, luckily, is getting exceptional services from his school system, but I know that there are backlog of kids in schools across the country, waiting to be evaluated before they can even begin to receive treatment. I've spoken to their worried, exhausted, frustrated parents. Believe me, they're aware.

We can raise more money for research, but if we keep researching the same thing over and over again (vaccination-autism link, which has been studied more than 20 times by the CDC alone), then how much progress are we making? I cringe at the thought that Autism Awareness Month is going to bring a host of new opportunities for Jenny McCarthy to preach her hysterical non-science to unsuspecting crowds.

And sometimes "awareness" seems like a consolation prize: We can't cure it. We don't have the funds to adequately treat it. Researching it is a political snakepit. So we're going to hold a rally, name a month, and make everyone aware of it.

As I write what sounds, even to me, like a cynical, smug excuse for doing nothing, I can hear a little voice in the back of my head asking, "So smarty-pants, what are you going to do? What's your big idea?" For some reason, this voice always sounds a little bit like Pee-Wee Herman.

I didn't have a plan when I started writing this, but now I've kind of talked myself into a corner, and I'm going to make a commitment to you: I'm going to call and write to every local, state and federal government official I can find until I get some answers as to why we don't have more therapists in the school system, and an expedited system for getting kids into treatment. For many families school-provided therapy is still the only autism treatment to which they have access.

I'm going to share the information I get with you and maybe, together, we can all figure where the logjam is and who I need to call or write to next month. Because as much as I'd like to think that Yoko Ono, our new World Autism Ambassador, is going to get everything sorted out by April 30, I'm pretty sure I'll still be making phone calls by the time the November mid-term elections roll around.

I'm totally open to hearing the opposing point of view about the necessity of Autism Awareness Days and the important strides that have been made because of them in the past. I'd be happy to find out that I'm completely wrong on this one, because I want to think that the time and money that's going into promoting this is well worth the effort and resources.

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.

A couple of years ago, comedian Denis Leary (Rescue Me) published a book, Why We Suck: A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid. He made some mildly funny comments like, "If God didn't want us to eat cows, why did he make them so slow? Did you ever eat a cheetah burger? No, and you never will." (With that logic, Denis must be scarfing possum burgers on a regular basis.)

He also made the following comments about autism: "There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their dumb-ass kids can't compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks . . . to get back diagnoses that help explain away the deficiencies of their junior morons. I don't give a [bleep] what these crackerjack whack jobs tell you - yer kid is NOT autistic. He's just stupid. Or lazy. Or both."

I don't know where to begin. But I don't have to. Leary was royally raked over the coals by absolutely everyone. From the Autism Society to his own college alma mater (for which he very successfully fundraises), everyone was demanding apologies.

He's a comedian. I get that. And I've said before, sometimes autism, like everything else, is funny. His statements, though, were not. They were idiotic, misinformed, tasteless, ignorant and hateful.

But even that I could have forgiven him if he'd come out and said, "You know what? I'm an ass, and I'm really sorry for what I said. I got carried away with being funny and forgot to be a human being."

But no, his explanation, when it came, actually accused everyone else of taking his comments "out of context." Unless the context was "Everything I'm about to say is stupid," I can't imagine how the context could explain away those statements. The title of the chapter was "Autism Schmautism."

Here's what he said as a way of explanation: "The bulk of the chapter deals with grown men who are either self-diagnosing themselves with low-level offshoots of the disease or wishing they could as a way to explain their failed careers and troublesome progeny ..."

Really? This is a big problem, is it? Because I know a lot of people in the autism community in this area and I've never met a single adult who had self-diagnosed himself as a high-functioning autistic to explain away a failed career. I've known some adults that I thought probably were high-functioning autistics, but to my knowledge, they're convinced they are completely normal.

Maybe this is some big trend out in Hollywood; those of you who live there will have to tell me. Stupider things have been trends: bed head, heroine chic, Channing Tatum. Maybe the big thing at LA parties that Denis Leary attends is to stand around and pretend to be autistic. That must make for one weird party.

Or maybe Denis Leary has been in the company of parents of autistic children who are musing on the possibility that some of their own traits seem kind of autistic too. We do that. The whole puzzle of it seems so baffling that we search ourselves for signs of this disorder to try and make sense of its sudden appearance in our families.

Dave and I have spent many a night discussing this very idea that we're both a bit "Aspergers-y." I, for instance, have to read four books at once. They're stacked up at my bedside. I read exactly one chapter in each, move it to the bottom of the stack, and then read a chapter in the next. I also do housework this way -- four activities at once, and I rotate between them until they're all done. I count compulsively. I have a phobia of the telephone. And social situations. And dressing room mirrors (Ok, that's not so much Aspergers-ish as having a fear of seeing myself from behind).

Dave goes completely off the rails if he has the tiniest stain on any part of his clothing. It can be on his pants, behind his knee. And I'm not kidding: We have to turn the car around and go home for him to change.

What does all this amount to? Nothing really. It's just something we do to entertain ourselves or keep ourselves sane. Most people are a little weird if you get to know them. What is normal, anyway?

Autistic kids are described as being "on the spectrum," because autism's baffling range of symptoms, characterstics and behaviors can't be described in one succinct definition. You can be a "little autistic," though professionals don't like to talk that way. Traditional Asperger's falls at this high end of the spectrum. And Rainman is at the other end.

But we're all on some kind of spectrum. Normal, if it exists, is a spectrum. And on any given day, your point on that spectrum can change.

Happiness is a spectrum. Being in love. Sanity. Fulfillment. Being an a-hole is a spectrum and some days I get a little closer to the Denis Leary end of that one than on others.

So maybe Denis Leary knows a bunch of fake autistic people and their fake autistic kids who are using this for ...? For the life of me, I can't really see the advantage. To my knowledge the only perk that being autistic gets you is to the head of the line at Disney World, so maybe they really really like Space Mountain.

But I'm hoping that the next time he has the spotlight and talks about autism, he might focus -- instead of on this imaginary miniscule minority of people -- on the huge number of real autistic kids and their parents who are struggling every day to pay for therapy, find answers, and celebrate the smallest amount of progress. I'll grant you, that's not very funny.

So maybe he could just shut up.

Prompted by all the "Rescue Me" promos I've seen on F/X while watching "Damages," this blog post is an unnecessarily long way to say I won't be watching the new season of "Rescue Me." Because I think Denis Leary is loud and stupid.

We found a church today. At least, I'm pretty sure we have. We've been looking for a while, and talk about finding something right under your nose: We ended up at the same place where we've been attending Kindermusik every Wednesday night for the past 5 months, Good Samaritan United Methodist.

Dave went to the nursery with Billy and Willow to help ease Billy into his new surroundings. We explained to the nursery staff that Billy is autistic, and they were all just wonderful. After an initial, brief meltdown over the site of Mama high-tailin' it to the grownups' room, Billy apparently settled in very nicely. At coloring time, he helpfully shared his orange crayon with everyone, whether or not they wanted a bit of orange on their drawing and seranaded the whole class with a couple of verses of "Jesus Loves Me."

I got a glorious hour to sit in a beautiful room, sing beautiful music, pray quietly and ponder philosophical and spiritual points. It felt downright luxurious. Like a spa for Mama's soul.

There was a time when I took going to church for granted. I grew up in church with a tight-knit group of friends who went on trips together, put on plays, occasionally behaved badly and yet, were ultimately baptized into a family that was more than the sum of its parts. Church was fun -- and yes, uplifting and spiritually rewarding -- but when you're a kid, the fun is what gets you there. I always wanted my children to have the same opportunity.

When we moved to Tallahassee, we started looking for a church to call home. One of our first stops looked very promising: It was known for its extensive children's program, which was a priority to me. For a couple of Sundays, we attended, with Dave going to children's church -- a much more structured environment than Billy was used to -- with Billy. During the Bible story, Billy's echolalia (repetitive talking) continued. He was overwhelmed by all the new people and the number of structured activities; each small group quickly changed from one station to the next activity every few minutes. And he melted down.

But Dave reported to me that he was able to get it under control and felt that with a little time, Billy would settle into the routine.

The next Sunday, though, the teacher made it clear to Dave that Billy was too disruptive to the rest of the class. Ultimately, Dave just took Billy outside to play. When he told me what happened, I wrote an email to the head of education. I was upset, and I probably got a bit high and mighty in my quoting of the Bible and Jesus' words about "Whatever you do to the least of these, you do unto me," and waxing poetic about how it was supposed to be God's house and no one, certainly not a child, should be turned away.

Well, I felt genuinely mortified about 5 minutes after I sent the email. But shortly thereafter, the phone rang; it was the head of education, and my mortification couldn't come close to matching hers, she said. She couldn't have been nicer. She explained that Sunday school teachers were volunteers and they weren't always equipped or trained to handle special needs. I assured her I understood, and the last thing we wanted was to ruin any other child's experience at church. I thought we were really making headway, were really coming to a consensus. Next time, I promised I would attend with Billy; I promised to take him out at the first sign of a meltdown, and somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to teach him his Sunday school lesson by ourselves, in the hallway, so that his echolalia wouldn't disturb the other kids' lesson.

Then before we hung up, she said something that completely changed my mind. "Of course," she said, "I still can't promise you it's going to work."

You can't promise me it's going to work? If it doesn't, then what? We get expelled from church? Really? Ah, just forget it.

Compare that with the response I got from a gentleman at Good Samaritan today: "If we're doing our job right as a church," he said kindly, "you and your son will always feel at home here. No matter what." I admit it: I burst into hysterical tears. Great impression on the new congregation: Mascara smearing everywhere. I'm trying to talk and say, "I'm not usually like this," (If you know me, you know that I actually am just like that, and just lied to my new church), while snorting and wiping my nose. Lovely.

Everyone was so kind. The pastor even said that she had just this week spoke to someone about starting a special needs Sunday school. I assured her there was such a need for it. I'm sure there are plenty of families with special kids who could use the spiritual support of a church family -- not to mention an hour of real, literal peace.

If you attend some house of worship, I'd really love to know how it handles kids with special needs. If you don't know, could you do me a favor and ask someone? I have a couple of reasons for asking this favor: First of all, I'm curious about the various ways this is handled and looking for ideas. Secondly, I think that the more people ask this question, the more likely the issue is to be addressed.

I know most places probably haven't addressed the issue simply because they don't have any special needs kids in their congregation. But that's one of those chicken-egg scenarios. Maybe there aren't any families with special needs in the congregation because attending is just too hard for them.

Again, I'm not trying to give financially- and manpower-strapped churches, synagogues, and their ever-dedicated volunteers a hard time. Not in the slightest. If anything, most of us parents of developmentally challenged children really wish our kids could fit right in, without any special accommodations whatsoever. I hate the idea that anybody would think we expect them to remake Sunday school for Billy -- but would it be OK if he just walked around during story time, while listening, rather than having to sit perfectly still? We'll go with him. We'll keep him from dismantling the carefully put-together Lego Noah's ark and try to keep his singing contextually appropriate (he's just as likely to launch into "The Gambler" as "Jesus Loves Me").

Because let's face it: When it comes to spiritual growth, we all have special needs sometimes.

I keep wanting to stop writing about Jenny McCarthy, and the crazy just continues. More on that later ...

First of all, I'd like to report that Willow had her one-year vaccinations yesterday, and suffered no ill side effects. I gave her a half-dose of Tylenol in case the injection sites hurt her, but she didn't run a fever, certainly didn't have any seizures or weird reactions, and celebrated her milestone by saying a new word today: "GO!" a command she delivers imperially with an energetic pointing forward of the finger. She's taking this whole "Princess" thing a little too seriously.

And speaking of the Princess/Fairy Tale birthday party, it was an enormous success. Willow had the time of her life, despite not being able to take a ride on the roller coaster or jump in the trampoline with the other kids. But a greater incentive to start walking I couldn't imagine.

I was ambivalent about the whole princess theme to start with. As Dave pointed out, staring at this giant poster of Disney princesses that adorned our living room, "Their wrists are bigger than their waists." And they're all built like Playboy bunnies. Even Tinkerbell has received an "extreme makeover," which seems to have included a trip to the plastic surgeon.

But you don't have to look much further than the covers of magazines that adorn every newsstand to realize that our daughters could do worse than to look to Disney's fairies and princesses as role models. Modern princesses like the mermaid and Pocahontas at least seem to be capable of solving their own problems, unlike poor insipid Cinderella and Snow White. And as for Mulan, she kicks booty. Of course, Mulan doesn't make it on to the Disney princesses mega-poster. But Sleeping Beauty does. And she spends most of the story asleep.

At least she's not getting drunk in night clubs, falling out of limos and uploading sex videos of herself to the Internet. It always disturbs me to see how many little girls turn up to a Paris Hilton book signing or want to meet Hugh Hefner's "Girls Next Door" when they do a public appearance. Really. There are mothers who drive their tween daughters to a Playboy event. Apparently, there are even parents who buy stripper poles for their little girls.

So in light of all that, I guess I can grit my teeth at the whole Disney princess thing for a while. We still have the mega-poster up in our house, because every time Willow passes it, she points, smiles and says, "Ooooooh." Ariel's her favorite, and by the time she realizes that "mermaid" is not a potential career path for her, I will have had plenty of time to woo her with the stories of cool ladies like Madame Curie, Harriet Tubman, Florence Nightingale and Eleanor Roosevelt.

In fact, March is National Women's History month, so it's a great excuse for us to talk to our daughters about remarkable women, whether those women are famous historical figures or phenomenal ladies in their own family or friends' circle. They may not wear a tiara or ball gown, but our hard-working mothers, teachers, nurses, female police officers, political leaders -- deserve crowns for what is probably, on most days, a thankless task.

And speaking of role models, I have another reason that Jenny McCarthy should not be a spokesperson for anything but Crazytown. Apparently, before this former Playboy model became the spokesperson for the anti-vaccination crowd, she was the host of a website called IndigoMoms.com. This site was for people who believed their children were "Indigo" or "crystal" children. Indigo children, they claimed, are the next evolution of humanity.

I quote from the archived website: "Indigos are extremely bright, precocious children with an amazing memory and a strong desire to live instinctively. These children of the next millennium are sensitive, gifted souls with an evolved consciousness who have come here [my note: From where???!] to help change the vibrations of our lives and create one land, one globe and one species ... You can have the Aura of your child photographed (white t-shirt in front of a white wall is best) and analysed to see which type your child is." Really. Now, I believe my son is extra special too. But I don't think he's from another planet. Jenny McCarthy, though, may be.

There was a column from an "angel therapy practitioner" (Ask the Angels), one written by a "certified Indigo healing facilitator," as well as one written by McCarthy herself, in which she describes the day she found out she was "an adult Indigo." The angel practitioner, McCarthy claimed, had a direct line to the Archangel Michael. I am not making this up. In the words of one guy posting on the Science-Based Parenting blog, "This is what happens when hippies find the Internet."

So anyway, when her son was about three years old, Jenny McCarthy believed he was "a more highly evolved species." But if you hear her interviewed these days, she claims that something was "wrong" with her son immediately after his 18-month MMR jab. No mention of the impact that vaccinations had on his aura. No mention of how his autistic traits were actually signs of his more highly evolved soul.

Up to 2007, McCarthy was still promoting this nonsense. Eventually, when she decided that her son was, in fact, autistic and that vaccines were to blame, McCarthy shut down the Indigo site and distanced herself from this kooky group.

So just keep all this in mind if you ever find yourself slightly swayed by any arguments Jenny McCarthy makes. She was just as passionate in her support of building schools to support students' auras and communing with the Archangel Michael through her angel therapy practitioner.
Just because she's been on Oprah doesn't mean she's qualified to give medical advice. Former English soccer player David Icke believes the world is run by giant lizard people; he got interviewed on a LOT of talk shows. But I'm not going to be calling him up for tax advice next month.

Boy, talking about vaccinations is like stirring up a hornet's nest. I've gotten some really interesting emails in the past 24 hours.

Yesterday, I blogged about my decision to vaccinate my kids. And the fact that Jenny McCarthy really really irritates me, because she rejects any science that conflicts with her personal opinions and accuses mothers who don't agree with her of not being willing "to do what it takes" to "cure" their kids' autism. I said that makes me want to punch her in the mouth, though she'd probably beat me up. Then several of my Facebook friends made some interesting comments, including several offers from some of my women friends -- beautiful, smart women whose input I regularly rely on -- with offers to beat up Jenny McCarthy on my behalf.

I joked that it sounded like a Pay-Per-View event, and we could air it as an autism fundraiser: Foxy Boxing for Autism. And various moms -- as well as women who just dislike Jenny McCarthy -- could take turns punching her in the mouth and explaining science to her. And another friend pointed out that one of the spokespeople for Autism Speaks was going to be on Celebrity Apprentice, so maybe we could get The Donald involved.

Last night, emails start rolling in. Apparently, some people didn't realize I was joking. And I'm flattered that you think I have clout to put such an event together, but I really don't think I could convince Donald Trump to get involved -- much less Jenny McCarthy. And no, I don't actually believe that Foxy Boxing for Autism is a good idea.

I probably did get a bit caught up in the exchange and come across as being a bit glib on the subject, when in fact, I'm not glib at all. I'm irritated, frustrated, often angry, sometimes scared and exhausted by the vaccination debate, but I'm not glib.

However, I refuse to stop laughing just because I have an autistic child. And this may shock some people, but sometimes autism is funny. We don't laugh at Billy, but we laugh about the things both are children do -- just as parents of normally developing children laugh. We didn't give up the right to smile when we had a child with special needs. We don't walk around with wounded expressions on our faces all the time, taking offense at the slightest comment. What a miserable life that would be.

Someone did make a good point though; one commenter pointed out that I claimed I wouldn't judge people who choose not to vaccinate their children -- when, in fact, my entire blog post was a judgment against said decision.

I'll give you that one. Saying, "I won't judge you," sounds good, but it's a lie. I'll say that I try not to be judgmental, because I know how hard it is to make any decision about your kids' health, to follow through, especially if your decision flies in the face of known science. But that is not what I judge you for.

No, my judgment -- and yes, it is there -- comes when you expose other people's children to risk. Some of those kids might not be as strong as your child. They might not be old enough yet for certain vaccinations and increasing their risk of exposure to disease should not be your right. So think about that the next time you go to the Health Department and tell them you're Amish so that you can get exempt from vaccinating your kid. You're making a decision that will affect all of us.

Now I'm done talking about this. It's tiresome and I've heard all the arguments a million times. So if you have any more to say about the evils of vaccination, please email Jenny McCarthy instead. And while you're at it, ask her if she's interested in Foxy Boxing for Autism.

It's time for Willow's one-year vaccinations. No mom likes "shot days," but for the parents of autistic children, it's particularly fraught with stress.

Despite overwhelming scientific evidence that there is no link between vaccinations and autism, the debate continues. Court cases continue. The number of parents opting out of vaccinations increases and the cases of measles and whooping cough increase.

I understand the fear. There are times I feel it, strong and heavy on my chest, pressing me to make judgment calls that conflict with my rational brain.

But that's not how I make decisions for my kids. If I did, I would never let them out of the house. The world is teeming with scary "what ifs?"

No, my kids, even my autistic son, will be vaccinated.

There was a time when I believed Billy's problems started at about 15 months. It's a fact that he said a few words at 11 months, and by 15 months, he had stopped almost altogether.

However, having a "neurotypical" daughter -- that's what we say in the special needs community to avoid using a meaningless word like "normal" -- I realize all the things Billy didn't do much earlier. He never pointed -- still hasn't, actually. He never handed me things and then asked for them back. His babbling, unlike Willow's, didn't sound like attempts to communicate. The sounds were more repetitive. And getting our attention -- or giving us his -- was never high on his agenda.

I'm fairly certain Billy's problems were there, in one form or another, from birth. Those challenges are just easier to identify as kids get older. Their differences from their peers are more apparent, because more is expected of them.

I'm quite literally tired of the vaccination debate. But it's a familiar tiredness. It's the same weariness that threatens to swallow me when I face many of the questions about autism: Is this therapy or that therapy actually doing anything? Is he making gains or am I just wanting to see improvements? Does this new treatment have any science behind it or is someone else just after our money? Do I need to invest the time and energy in educating myself about some new breakthrough -- or can I bribe Dave into reading about it?

We're willing to try anything. We've tried the gluten-free, casein-free diet. We've done Therapeutic Listening, music therapy, weighted vests, brushing therapy (imagine brushing a horse and then insert the image of a ticked-off three-year-old into your vision), fish oil, magnesium supplements -- there is no investment, financial or time-wise that we are not willing to make. We would happily bankrupt ourselves to save our child. I have taken a break from my career to be a full-time mom, and that has been the best decision I've ever made. Every spare minute we have we happily offer up to our babies with joyful hearts.

So when Jenny McCarthy goes on Larry King or Oprah and says that she "cured" her son's autism because she was willing to "do what it takes," I'll be honest, I want to punch her in the mouth. And I'd probably get beat up because she kind of scares me.

But she should know that my son's not still autistic because we weren't willing to do what it takes. We are. We so are. I have tried things (yep, brushing therapy) that would have made me laugh out loud a year ago. I have invested in things that two years ago I specifically said I would never try. I will not judge you for trying anything -- as long as it's not harmful -- to save your child.

So I'm not going to judge you if you decide not to vaccinate your children. I just want to put my position out there, because if there's some mom who is being pressured to avoid vaccinations and wants to hear from someone from the other side ... well, here I am.

I've read the science. I've debated the topic with my husband, with other moms, with therapists and doctors. I've wracked my brain and spent many sleepless nights sifting through the facts, the emotions, the fears. I've sought the opinions of friends and strangers in the medical and science community. I've listened, I've argued, I've questioned, I've read. And I've come to a decision.

If the science changes or evolves, so will my opinion. And if you'd like to discuss my reasons further, feel free to contact me. But not on Wednesday, because that's the day Willow's getting vaccinated.

Willow turns one on Sunday! I can't believe it's been a whole year since one of the best and worst days of my life. Oh yeah, I'm not going to lie to you. Labor was horrible; there was nothing beautiful about it either time for me. And there are still times when I look at my children's beautiful, giant heads that I get a cold shudder down my spine.

My sister used to joke that I was the Grinch Who Stole Pregnancy, but I felt like there was enough propaganda out there about the beauty of the experience; it was my job to be a living, breathing example of pregnancy's ugly dark side. I gained weight from the top of my head to, quite literally, the bottom of my feet (I went up a size and a half in shoes, and even after losing the baby weight, my feet are still as big as Christmas hams); I had non-stop morning sickness and was so hormonal that when I wasn't crying, I was breaking something ... on purpose.

But that is behind me, and my little WiFi is a daily source of hilarity and real inspiration to me. Until she came along, I didn't realize the things that Billy hadn't done as a baby. She hands me things. She pretends to talk. She learnes new words every day. Her vocabulary now includes "Mama," "Daddy," "BEE!" (Billy), "baby," "cat," "up," "ice," "buh-buh" (bottle), "Nan," "Pop," "bye," the list goes on.

And one horrifying profane word that I cannot print in this family-friendly forum. She didn't learn this word from us. This word is not one that gets spoken in our house or even when we get cut off in traffic.

No, this word is a strange example of how children learn to communicate. Willow plays with sounds, and two of her favorite words for a while were "cat" and "cook-cook" (cookie). Well, she kept playing around with variations on these words, changing the vowels around -- "cot," "bok" ... you see where this is going -- until she hit on just the right word to make Mama pop her head up and shout, "What did you say?!"

Well, it doesn't get much better than that reaction to Willow. Somewhere in her little brain, she logged this as the word that gets Mama's attention. And it does. I can't help it. I know the right reaction is to ignore it completely, but I'll be honest with you, if we're in public, I give her anything she wants to shut her up.

Yesterday, I was pushing her around the party store in the shopping cart; I had decorated her in this adorable little "Birthday Princess" crown and sash and she was smiling and happily shouting her new favorite word over and over again. People were giving me looks. So I started saying, "No, you can't have a COKE," in the hopes they would buy it. Or, "Oh, you want a COOKIE? No problem; here ya go." And she tossed the cookie down and shouted the word again. I just got out of there before anyone could call Child Services.

By the time she was born, we were already pretty sure Billy was autistic, even though we hadn't received the official medical diagnosis yet. At that point, his verbal skills were still very limited, so we didn't know how bad things would get. I didn't know if he'd ever learn to communicate and be independent or if he'd need care the rest of his life.

These days, we're very confident about the progress he's making, and feel very optimistic that within a couple of years he's going to be very close to his peers in development. But a year ago, I looked at my baby daughter and thought, You'll still be with him when we're gone. You're so small and already have such a big responsibility. I have known adults who care for adult siblings with special needs and they are unsung, uncelebrated, often unappreciated (sometimes even by those they care for) heroes.

So a year later, it does my heart good to see Billy pull his baby sister into his lap. When she sees him, she shouts, "Bee!" and "Up!" He smiles, hugs her and holds her, wrapping his big lanky body around her. When she's in the tub he says, "Willow, close your eyes. I'm going to wash your eyes," imitating the things I say to him when I wash his face. And then he gently helps me wash her hair and brush it.

It never occurred to me that he would take on the responsibility of looking after her so quickly. But he's the big brother. She's the baby sister. And with any luck, they'll spend the rest of their lives looking after one another.

Billy was bawling his eyes out yesterday, faced pressed to the front window as his new play date and his mom pulled out of our driveway. "He's gone! He's not here! EJ, where are you?" The "you" is a long heartbroken wail. "He's not here and it's my birthday!"

It's not Billy's birthday. That line came straight from a book called Little Bear. But the emotion is real. He made a new friend and watching EJ walk away at the end of the play date was devastating.

My heart ached, and I had tears in my own throat. I also recognized that rising panic that I feel when confronted with a parenting problem I'm worried can't handle. I looked at him and it was like staring in helpless horror as an injured baby bird flailed around in the middle of a busy intersection. No amount of organization, careful study or regular therapy will ever protect my baby's heart from being broken.

Most people are more familiar with the unemotional side of autism, and we get that sometimes. It's almost easier to deal with. When I pick Billy up from school some afternoons, he's clearly waiting for me. But when he sees me, his first response might be a blank stare. And then suddenly, his face will break into the most brilliant smile and he'll run at me, arms in the air. And at the last minute, rather than throw himself into my arms, he does what we call "the drive-by:" he breaks away and runs in the other direction. It's almost like the emotion of the moment is too strong. He has to back away, size up the situation and then come at me again. It might take three or four tries before he finally accepts my embrace, but when he does, it's whole-hearted. He feels very deeply and sometimes it's too much for him.

When the anticipation of a moment is too strong -- maybe it's a tense moment in a book or TV show he knows very well -- he'll sometimes put his fingers in his ears. Anything to dull the sensory overload, it seems. Like he'll feel it less if he can't hear or see things as clearly. I think we all have moments like that in our lives, when we'd like to put a hazy filter on things, to tone it down just a bit. Billy's heartbreak over the absence of his new friend was one of those moments for me.

Then I snapped out of it. My son may be autistic, but he's no injured baby bird; he's smart and strong. He can handle this, and so can I. "Find Mama's eyes," I told him, and after a last doleful glance at the empty driveway, he turned his tear-stained face up to me.

"Find Mama's eyes," he repeated and then wailed again, "EJ is gone! He's not here!"

"Yeah, I know," I agreed, giving him a big hug. "But he'll come back. He's coming back on Sunday for Willow's birthday. And you'll see him at school, at lunch and on the playground." EJ goes to the same school, but is in a different pre-K class.

"He's not here. He's gone," he says again, but he's not crying now; he's thinking. "He's not here and it's my birthday." But the gears are working in his brain; you can almost watch them move. "Willow's birthday," he seemed to correct himself, and something clicked. "Where's Willow?"

Good point. Crap, where is Willow? In the midst of the drama, I momentarily forgot all about my one-year-old.

We find her playing happily, as usual, in her play yard. She looks up at her brother, squeals with delight, and holds up her arms. "Up!" she shouts. Instead, Billy climbs in the play yard with her. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes, maybe a little too hard, but she's a robust little thing and loves every minute of it.

I watch them play together, arranging figures and furniture in the doll house, and thank my lucky stars that there is no filter on what I feel.