It can be a scary road.

I like to write about Billy's breakthroughs. I love to share our joy when he seems to meet one more challenge that his autism presents … and to try to illustrate how, when he does make progress, he still does that in an autistic way – and that's a beautiful thing. We've undoubtedly been blessed with some beautiful breakthroughs this year.

But it's not all beautiful. And it's certainly not all breakthroughs. Far from it.

It's really hard for me to write about the rough stuff. I struggle with the ethics of sharing his hardest moments. I debate whether talking about Billy's autistic challenges might give people outside our “special needs circle” the wrong impression of autism. After all, there's enough histrionic screeching about “autism epidemics” and such in the press.

But I'm not the press. And I do not speak for the entire community of parents of autistic kids. I speak for my child – when he's not able to do that for himself.

Which brings me to this week. We came back from our glorious vacation, experienced several communication breakthroughs – a couple of which I blogged about here.

And then Billy got sick.

Just a plain old summer cold with fever and sore throat. But for an autistic child who is still making the connection between cause and effect in terms of his own body, this is a very frightening things. In the middle of the night, when he could sleep, he would wake up screaming, “What is HAPPENING to me?”

At least he can ask that now. But I'll be honest: That's one of the few functional things he's been able to say in the past few days. Mostly, we've heard non-stop scripting, crying and, inexplicably, the occasional fire engine sound. (FYI, it's eerie how realistically he can emulate that sound. And that's not something you want to wake to, coming through your baby monitor at 2 a.m.)

It's depressing on a well-rested day to see even temporary regression. But go a couple of nights with no sleep, struggling to calm your terrified, sick child, and it's the recipe for a pretty black mood.

However, last night was better. We discovered that he had an ulcer on his tongue (probably caused by the fever) and once we treated that, he slept a lot better. So did I.

Now I can look at things a lot more practically. This is temporary. The weird, wacky, wonderful road of progress along the spectrum is definitely not a straight route. It takes strange turns. It can trip you up. Sometimes it may be hard to tell if you're getting anywhere.

But as the late, great Buddy Hackett once told me (remind me to tell you THAT odd story one day), “When you get to my age, sweetheart, you realize that the journey is the destination.”

So let's keep moving, OK? If you let me lean on you this week, I promise to stop and pick you up when you need a lift.

Billy had a week off from Camp Escape last week, so we decided to take a family vacation. Last year, at this time, we chickened out of family vacation, because we just didn't think he would sleep in a strange bed. We had visions of long, screaming sleepless nights that scared us into opting for a STAYCATION. Which turned out great.

We've taken vacations with extended family, so that my mom could sleep with Billy – like our New Year's trip to Disney. But we've never managed to pull off an overnighter with just the four Broadfeet.

But this year, we pulled up our big-boy pants, took a deep breath and headed for Disney World: me, Dave, Billy and Willow.

At first, I wasn't sure how much it sunk in with Billy when I told him we were going to Disney World again. I showed him some pictures and explained that we were going on Tuesday: “Today is Wednesday. On Thursday and Friday, we go to camp. On Saturday, we go to gymnastics. On Sunday we go to church. Monday we will stay home and relax. And Tuesday we go to Disney World!”

Each day, I would tell him what day it was, and he would update this mantra to himself: “On Friday we go to camp, on Saturday we go to gymnastics, On Sunday …” and so on.

Still lovin' those Teacups!

For many autistic people, mastering the concept of time can be difficult. This was the very first time I'd seen Billy show real anticipation about an upcoming event. And demonstrate a grasp of days of the week!

He also showed that he had memories of his previous trips, because he talked about the things he wanted to ride – in his own way: “The Teacups, the Crazy Train, The Smaller World, The Dumbo...”

We got an awesome deal on this three-day getaway. First of all, our tickets were comped, thanks to the nice people at Disney. And then Travelocity suggested a hotel deal for us: a two-bedroom villa at Orange Lake Resort (part of the Holiday Inn Vacation Club) for about $120/night (there were some taxes and a $9/day resort fee as well). The catch: we had to go on Tuesday and Wednesday night, but that worked fine for us.

Orange Lake Resort has a huge kids Splash Pool complex, a water slide, an enormous one-foot-deep baby pool with sprinklers, pop fountains, a lazy river ride, a putt-putt course, and a bowling alley.

We didn't actually visit the golf or bowling, because our kids would have spent the rest of their lives at the pop fountains, given the chance.

But Billy did conquer his fear and ride the water slide, which he didn't stop talking about, in wide-eyes wonder, the whole trip: “It goes over your hair!” (His way of saying he got dunked under the water briefly at the end.)

We spent all day Wednesday at Magic Kingdom, mostly in the Fantasyland section, and both kids had an absolute ball. They loved It's a Small World, of course (a friend suggested that this ride is much more fun for adults if you imagine you have a shotgun) and Dumbo.

With our Guest Assistance Pass (available to kids and adults with all kinds of disabilities), we were able to scoot through lines pretty quickly and get to every ride they wanted to ride on that one day. We only had one Cast Member demand to see our Guest Assistance Pass (which he called the “handicapped pass” in a rare moment of Disney non-political correctness) because I guess he couldn't believe our child had any problems. But I have learned – especially after our last fighty trip to Disney – to take this as the compliment it was not intended to be and just get on the bleedin' train.

The obligatory "castle in the background" shot. The excitement is palpable!

I didn't take that many photos this trip, because I really wanted to be in the moment with my kids. Too often on any excursion, we spend so much time setting up photo ops that we ruin the fun. And by “we,” I mean, of course, “me.”

We had FUN. The kids were good company. Billy listened, communicated, and didn't tantrum once. He handled all the stimulation with a pretty good humor, only losing it once, on the Pirates of the Caribbean, which I had tried, in vain, to convince my husband was a BAD IDEA. I wish I could feel more triumphant about being right.

One of the most touching things that happened was the way the kids bonded with each other. At ages two and (nearly) five, they don't really run in the same circles, but in many ways, developmentally, they're about at the same level. And in some ways, like communication, Willow is ahead of her brother.

Still, they found delightful ways to play together. With no cousins, grandparents or other adults (other than us, and we're old news) to coddle them, they stuck together like glue. They goofed in the back seat together on the way down to Orlando (when they weren't fighting as violently as is humanly possible when strapped into car seats at arm's length from one another). Once we were at our hotel, there were games involving chasing and hiding and bouncing on the new beds in “their” room (note: Willow did NOT actually end up sleeping in that room with Billy, but it was “theirs” during daylight hours). None of these games did we remotely understand. And all of them were infused with gales of laughter.

We had "circle time" each night as a family, just like we do when we're at home. We thought it would help Billy transition to sleep more easily if he had the same routine on the road -- to the extent possible. And maybe it worked -- he slept through the night both nights in his own room.

And after they went to bed, Dave and I cooked dinner in the condo, which had a full kitchen, sat together on the screened-in balcony to eat it and actually talked to each other. Mostly, we talked about what an awesome vacation we were having, and in hushed tones, used terms like "just like a normal family."

After we'd been home a couple of days, I went into Billy's room one night to tuck him in and found him playing an involved game on his own. He had upturned Willow's doll walker and was placing his dominoes (he LOVES dominoes) in the little trough created by the upside-down plastic toy.

At first, I was irritated. I didn't know why he had taken Willow's toy or why he was jamming in his dominoes inside of it. But before I started cleaning up the “mess,” something stopped me, and I asked him, “Billy, what are you doing?”

Can you spot the "yayers?" FYI, down below is The Dumbo, The Smaller World and The Crazy Train.

Billy stared at his little project for a minute before picking up one of the dominoes and pushing it down the little trough. “He's having a water slide,” he informed me matter-of-factly.

And by God, on second look, it DID look like a water slide! He was imagining his trip and using his dominoes to act it out!

One little line of dominoes was separate from the slide. Out of curiosity, I asked him again, “What are these guys over here doing?”

Billy stared at the line of dominoes for a couple of seconds. “They're ...” it was clear he was searching for a word. Finally, he finished, “They're YAYING.” And went back to his game.

They're “yaying,” cheering for the domino going down the water slide, just like he did for each of the kids that went down the slide ahead of him. He was actually acting out a little drama of his own, with characters that had roles, and it wasn't a script he had learned but a story that came out of his own imagination, based on his own memories.

This is me yaying.

Billy has become really interested in feelings lately. "Mama, how do you FEEL?" is a frequent question.

And he squints his big blue eyes and seems to really concentrate as I give my answer.

He seems dubious of simple emotions lately: happy, sad, silly and tired no longer cut it.

So I've tried to introduce slightly more complex emotions like frustrated, peaceful, confused, etc.

Which brings us to ...

INT. BILLY'S ROOM - NIGHT

It's bedtime. We've just tucked in, had a final story and he has said his prayers.

BILLY: Mama, what are you feeling please?

ME: (thinking about it) I feel peaceful. That's a quiet kind of happy that's good for bedtime.

He squints his eyes as though he doesn't believe me.

ME: And hungry. I have to go have my dinner now. How do YOU feel?

He considers this for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Then his eyes return to mine.

BILLY: I'm concerned.

ME: Concerned? That's a big word. Do you have a problem?

BILLY: Yes.

ME: Tell me about it. What are you concerned about?

BILLY: (emphatically) Mascara.

A beat.

ME: Mascara? Why are you concerned about mascara? Do you not know what it is? Do you not understand what it's for?

Another beat. He considers.

BILLY: Yes.

ME: Well. Mascara. It goes on ladies' eyelashes to make them ... um, darker and longer ... it's kind of like ... paint?

Billy's look has evolved from concerned to what I would call "alarmed."

ME: It's dress-up. Let's just leave it at that. No cause for concern, OK? Absolutely nothing to worry about with mascara.

Then I kiss him on the head and turn out the light.

BILLY: (in the dark) Mama? Are you peaceful?

ME: Yes I am.

This kid NEVER tires of bubbles.

This time last year, I was a crazy person. I didn't realize it, but I was.

I was at home full-time with my four-year-old autistic son and my one-year-old wanna-be Tazmanian Deviless, and I pre-planned every moment of each day in 15-minute intervals. I am not even exaggerating. I wish.

Three weeks into this road map to the nut house, I was actually half-praying to get sick, so that I would have an excuse to go to bed and not sing “5 Little Ducks” again. I was convinced that my children hated me and that my failures amused them.

Things definitely got better once I loosened the reigns a little bit and allowed everyone the occasional half-hour Dora break. But still, I looked on with envy at the parents happily packing their kids off to camp at the science museum or the children's theater or local parks department. Or even those parents that just let their kids spend all day in the back yard without worrying whether they were learning or not. No one had warned them about the dangers of "regression."

FYI, my parents never worried about regression over the summer either. In fact, I can't even remember much about my parents being THERE during the summer. I know they were; somehow we got fed, bathed and put to bed. But summer was spent riding my bike around the neighborhood, playing in backyard forts, digging holes in stuff and generally, avoiding adult intervention at all costs.

Anyway, it's not that "normal" camps wouldn't accept Billy. But in the case of most camps geared toward normally developing children, with staff trained to handle aforementioned normally developing children, I get the impression that they consider the day a success if no one calls 911. As long as everyone's smiling most of the time, job done.

And if I were them, I would feel the same way.

I wanted Billy to continue to learn, at his level, throughout the summer. I wanted him to have the chance to work on those areas we've identified as challenges – social skills, expressive language, emotional control, independent work time – but I also wanted him to enjoy himself. Really enjoy himself.

Rather than Camp Stims-A-Lot where he'd be allowed to wander around aimlessly, lost in his own world, so long as he wasn't hurting anyone, I wanted him to be challenged. At the same time, I wanted him to have the opportunity to engage in those activities in which he really excels.

I don't ask for much.

As it turns out, my extremely high expectations are not impossible to meet.

This year, for the first time, Billy's behavior therapy group, BMC Southeast, launched a special summer program, Camp Escape, for elementary- and middle-school-aged kids. During the first three-week session, their theme is “Planes, Trains, Automobiles and Carriages.” The second session will have a “Legends and Fairy Tales” theme, while the final session, running two weeks is all about “Games and Sports.”

The Camp Escape staff are ABA specialists, with the director, Dr. Dawn Bailey, BCBA-D, being a Billy specialist extraordinaire. So far this week, every day in which I've been there, there has been a 1:1 ratio of staff to kids, and they're committed to never having a greater than 1:3 ratio throughout the summer. Because of this strong staff ratio, each child's day can be tailor-made, to some degree, to fit their individual needs, interests and challenges.

Since Billy started working with the wonderful people at BMC about a year ago, he's made remarkable progress. I'm a firm believer that no single intervention has ever been enough for Billy – he has been blessed with a multi-faceted and committed team of speech, occupational, and behavior therapists – as well as wonderful teachers and aides – but the therapists at BMC have been a part of his school day, as well as his home life. Ms. Elyse, his private therapist, has come to church with us and helped us get a haircut. And every time she and/or Dr. Bailey has been involved in some challenge we've encountered along the spectrum, they offered up ideas and the situation has significantly improved.

A year ago, Billy wasn't potty-trained. His functional language was limited. He would eat about three things. He had a great deal of difficulty transitioning from one activity to another, and he rarely played with other children – or even seemed to care whether they were there or not.

On his second day of camp, he apparently approached a new friend, called him by name, and said, “Come play with me!” When the kid in question didn't immediately jump at the opportunity, Billy guided him over to his newly discovered wonder: Zhu Zhu Pets.

The campers' days have been full of music and dance, outside games, crafts, water play, developmental play – all with an eye toward encouraging social interaction, better communication and the kind of learning that happens when they don't even realize it. As Dr. Bailey said to me at the beginning of the summer, “I don't want this to be Camp Therapy.” And it's not.

That being said, at the end of every day, I get an in-depth one-on-one report from Dr. Bailey about Billy's day, the parts of it he enjoyed most, the moments during which he had challenges and how those challenges were approached/handled. A picture choice chart, for instance, has eliminated aimless wandering during free play time. His use of pronouns, I'm told, has been improving steadily. And today he had a full day that was essentially meltdown-free!

Billy took this trophy to bed with him tonight.

And yesterday, Billy won a trophy for his expertise at “Train, Train, Car” (“Duck, Duck, Goose”). I'm not even sure how one actually wins at “Duck, Duck, Goose,” but the award has joined his Bash and Dash trophy on the mantlepiece nonetheless.

But the greatest reward so far, without a doubt, has been the image of him greeting a new friend with excitement and actually asking him to come play with him. A year ago, I was not sure if that moment would ever come, and if I'd been able to choose one goal for the whole summer, that would have been it. So as far as I'm concerned, this camp has already been TOTALLY worth every penny.

Speaking of our pennies, Camp Escape is $300 per week for a full 8:30 – 3:30 day (after care can be arranged for $75/week.) Session 1 runs June 13 – July 1; Session 2 is July 11 – July 29 and the final session runs August 1 – August 12. They can also arrange half-days, if someone's schedule doesn't permit a full-day program.

The location is at Good Samaritan United Methodist Church and you can find out more at www.bmcsoutheast. There's still room for more campers, if you're in the Tallahassee area, and Billy and I would LOVE to have you join our beautiful little group!

But keep in mind that the competition for “Duck, Duck, Goose” is fierce.

I feel soooooooooo old. Yes, I'm turning 40 on Saturday, but it feels like 400. I can't remember what it feels like to sleep 60 straight minutes in a row, because the kids, and then both of us, have been sick for a week and a half now. Willow finally went back to school on Friday, and then this morning, Billy got a better-late-than-never start on his school day.

As usual, he found being sick scary, particularly in the middle of the night. Every time he woke up coughing, he would start screaming and run to our room. “I'm so sick!” he would tell us, and then ask, “Can I feel better?”

In fact, despite his fear and illness, he did an awful lot of very good communicating this week. He woke up Wednesday morning by projecting vomiting all over his bed and then repeating the act on me. “Can I have a towel?” he asked each time.

About the third day of his sickness, Dave pointed out, “You know, I haven't heard any echolalia in the last few days.” Echolalia is the repeating of scripts from TV shows and books or even conversations. Usually, Billy still does a lot of that.

When I went in to ask him if he was ready to get up in the morning, instead of giving me a few angry lines from what he calls Math Frogs Go to the Moon he actually asked me, “Can I wait a little while? Can I rest?” I was as shocked as I would have been if he'd suddenly asked me what mortgage rates were down to these days.

Within a few days, though, it was clear that he was saying almost everything in the form of a question. This from a kid who up until a few months ago, never asked questions. Now it was one question after another:

“Mama, can you leave Willow alone?” (His way of asking me to tell Willow to leave HIM alone.)

“Where is our Maglev?” (His way of showing me a video of the French bullet train on the iPad.)

“Mama, can the earth and moon resemble a double planet system?” (His way of telling me, for the 400^th time, that the Earth and moon resemble a double planet system. Thank you, Moon in Your Room CD!)

He would kill at Jeopardy where you have to answer in the form of a question – if the categories were the following: “Willow leaving me alone,” “YouTube videos of Maglevs,” “The phases of the moon,” and “Willow not touching my iPad.”

By the way, I have never understood the point of Jeopardy's little twist of answering in the form of a question. It's just stupid. I love Jeopardy, but counting it against someone if they don't answer in the form of a question is like having a game of super-nerd Mother May I:

"It's true that Yuzuru Hiraga was the Japanese naval architect noted for work on innovative warships such as the cruiser Yubari and Yamato for the Imperial Japanese Navy, but you didn't say, 'WHO is Yuzuru Hiraga.' You lose."

During his bedridden time the past week, he has also been obsessively watching his new Watch Me Learn DVDs, which model social behavior by depicting kids in a variety of settings playing games, eating together, sharing craft supplies, etc.

When he started feeling better he actually walked over to me at my desk and asked, "Mama, what are you doing?"

ME: I'm playing a stupid computer game. (In my defense, I was sick too.)

BILLY: Mama, can I play a stupid computer game too?

ME: Sure!

So I pulled him up in my lap and showed him how to play Word Whomp, which he was so unimpressed with that he then informed me ...

BILLY: OK, now it's time to clean up!

This morning, Billy finally got so bored with all my fussing over him and dosing him with medicines and checking his temperature, that at about 5 a.m., he posed his Final Jeopardy question to me: “Mama, can you go away?”

He was in my bed at the time. And yep, I left it to him.

When Billy sleeps, we all win.

INT. Master Bedroom. Morning. VERY. EARLY. MORNING.

Despite evidence to the contrary, this is not the aftermath of a natural disaster. It is – or once was – a tastefully decorated master bedroom. Now we can barely make out the outline of a bed beneath the mounds of dirty laundry, bath toys, baby bottles (yes, we allowed Willow a bottle again this week), half-filled sippy cups, wadded up tissues and half-empty bottles of children's Tylenol and Ibuprofen.

Four limp figures sprawl on the king-sized bed: two adults (sort of) and two children. One by one, they cough.

BILLY: Daddy has a cough.

(Billy coughs)

BILLY (cont.): Billy has a cough.

ME: Say, “I have a cough.”

BILLY: Mama has a cough.

ME: No, you have a cough.

(I cough.)

ME: And yes, I have a cough too.

(I take his hand and pat his own chest with it.)

ME: “I have a cough ...” (I use his hand to point at Dave.) He has a cough. (Point at me.) You have a cough. (point at Willow) She has a cough.”

DAVE: I just love these little family learning moments.

CLOSE ON

ME as I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously and swig directly from my personal bottle of Tylenol cold medicine.

WILLOW: (clinks the medicine bottle with her bottle) Cheers!

As of a couple of weeks ago, Billy has developed a fascination for maps. His favorite is the map of the United States of America, and he quickly memorized all the states. The laminated map you'll see in the video above was once on the wall, but after repeatedly picking it up off the floor and rehanging it, I finally just let him keep it on the floor.

He lays on top of it, puts his eyeball practically right on top of his favorite states -- "Texas, Okla-HOHM-ah, Tennessee, and Ha-WHAH-eeeeee" -- for some reason.

Let's keep in mind that he still hasn't developed the communication skills to tell me where we ate lunch today ... at least, not yet. But he can name all 50 states and locate them on the map, which is more than I can do. (FYI, he can't read the names yet ... at least, I don't think he can.) And he's started on the countries of the globe.

Autism and memory are fascinating to me. Some kids like to memorize the names of every dinosaur known to man; others like to memorize dates or license plates or can easily memorize the TV guide, seemingly at a glance. One fascinating autistic child whose dad I've met online can tell you one what day of the week you were born instantly, just by knowing your birthdate.

Too often these remarkable talents are dismissed as "splinter skills," a somewhat pejorative term, in my opinion. Aren't all amazing talents "splinter skills?" Just because you aren't equally great at everything, that doesn't mean that the strengths and talents you have shouldn't be recognized as such.

Billy digs maps -- at least, at the moment -- as well as planets and satellites. He memorizes everything the GPS system says -- to the point we have to turn it off or drive ourselves crazy. I can imagine him in about 20 years, filling a date's ears with factoids about the Cassini-Huygens orbiter/probe. Or reciting the directions to her house like a living, breathing GPS system.

Look at it this way: At least they'll never get lost.

The requirements to get one of these stars has loosened up considerably.

I've written before about Billy's abiding love of Tina Fey. His fascination for pictures of the funny lady continues, unabated.

Today, though, we will meet a few other favorite members of Billy's Hollywood posse ...

INT. MINI-VAN - AFTERNOON

MOVING

Each day, on the drive home from school, we have a kind of conversation about Billy's day. Autistic kids, as a general rule, have difficulty with concepts like time and storytelling (that isn't scripted) so we've been working on this ... with varying levels of success.

ME: Hey champ, did you have a good day at school?

BILLY: Yes, good day at school.

(This response is pretty much scripted by this point, so I try to take the conversation a step further.)

ME: What did you do at school today?

BILLY: Played with friends.

(Darn. He managed to pull out another scripted answer. OK, let's try this again ...)

ME: Billy, WHO did you play with at school today?

(Pause. He's thinking. This is good. Ideally, this means he's thinking about the question, recalling the day and formulating an answer.)

BILLY: David Hyde Pierce.

ME: David -- WHAT?

BILLY: No, not David Hyde Pierce. It's Jason Alexander!

ME: Billy, I don't think you played with Jason Alexander today.

BILLY: No, not Jason Alexander. Joan Allen!

ME: Let's think about this, Billy. Joan Allen is an actress. She lives in California. She starred in the movie THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM. I don't think she was in Ms. Jade's class today.

BILLY: Hi, my name is Joan Allen!

ME: (sigh.) So, Joan, got any explanation for doing the movie DEATH RACE?

*

I was thoroughly flummoxed till I found out that during nap time -- an activity in which Billy refuses to participate -- Billy listens to stories on CD with headphones. One of those CDs features the If You Give a Mouse... stories, and guess who the narrators are?

Yep: David Hyde Pierce, Jason Alexander and Joan Allen.

So that conversation, though it unfolded in a non-traditional format, was actually a success. In his own way, he DID "play" with them!

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.

Bad hair! The Bee Gees! A calendar of 1979

... to bring you an episode of the $25,000 Pyramid. Remember that game show?

Well, apparently Willow was Dick Clark in another life, because she remembers it too. Wait, Dick Clark is still alive. How old is that man anyway? Like 150?!

But I digress ... So Willow cuddles up in bed with me for a few minutes each morning, and she tells me things. Usually, it's just words she knows. Lately, though, she's been categorizing them. She'll sit on my chest and and recite, "Pink ... bwack ...white ...yewwoh ... orange..." and then wait.

My job is to respond, "Colors!"

Then she'll do another one: "Carrots ... peas ... ice cream ..."

"Food!" I'll guess, and if I get it wrong, she keeps going:

"Fry-fries (French fries)...eat-dog (hot dog) ..."

And I've got it: "Plastic food in your toy kitchen!"

Bingo. Then she starts again: "Mama ... Daddy ... Bee-dah (brother) ...Nan..." and so on.

She loves this game. I feel like that at 22 months, categorizing words like this is a sign of unadulterated genius, but since I've never seen a normally developing child acquire language, this is probably totally normal. Everything she says seems like magic to me.

But this morning she stumped me. After we went through "Animals," "Flying stuff" and "Shapes," she came out with this list:

"Five ... car...Tar-Brown (Charlie Brown) ...eight ...Corny-corn (unicorn) ... Tar-Brown..."

Any thoughts?