An Autism Glossary

An autism glossary.

Diagnosis. This is a word that has become fascinating to me. For a long while, "autism" was thought to be distinct from "Asperger's syndrome." But then it was revealed that Asperger was--literally--a Nazi. He supported the Nazi party. Several different kinds of quirky behavior were subsequently lumped under one umbrella, "Autism Spectrum Disorder." But if you hear the letters ASD, you may think of the phenomenon called "classic autism," a scenario that is characterized by *profound* isolation and a rigid need for repetitive behavior. Many professionals I've encountered argue that certain minor symptoms should *not* fall under the ASD umbrella. Instead, these symptoms should be called "quirky behavior."

Caretakers. I am not a social person, and I really hate the stream of caretakers that makes its way through my house. I hate that one of the current caretakers--a celebrated "behavior technician"--greets me by reporting that he is "living the dream!" I hate that I then have to expend emotional energy to pretend that I do not find his sarcasm unprofessional and inappropriate. I hate that--when my child calls me "Mom"--I have a stranger disrupting the conversation to demand that I get labeled "Papa." "Mom" seems fine to me. But the *absence* of a stream of professionals would be a fate worse than death. You must appreciate "the devil you know." The weirdness of having caretakers is captured in a movie called "His Three Daughters." One of the central daughters routinely struggles with caretaker boundaries--and occasionally seems to resent the caretakers. At the same time, she plots to win a caretaker's allegiance with free food. ("It would certainly be helpful if that woman there in Dad's bedroom didn't secretly hate us....")

Shame. I was a totally clueless parent for so, so long. I rejected "ABA therapy" because it had an aura of dustiness--one cliche about ABA was that it used overbearing philosophies, it was out of date. The cliche was wrong--and, by not doing a bit of additional research, I made at least two years of Josh's life harder than they needed to be. Also, I avoided getting treatment for depression because (1) it seemed possibly easier just to wait for a change in the tide and (2) I imagined that I didn't really have a right to be depressed. Feeling ambivalent about some parts of parenting seemed to be something like a failure. How self-indulgent! An ally observed that primary parents with special-needs kids are (a) uncompensated, (b) "on call" for every minute of every day, (c) socially invisible, and (d) unlikely to succeed in more than a small fraction of any given day's "job-related" crises. Yesterday, my husband received a text from a family friend--the text offered congratulations on the "Blue Wave." "You did it!" And I paused to note that I had been feeding the political tactician--I listened to his concerns about Vivek late at night--I was polite to the donors who were looking for a friendly trip to the theater. No one offered a congratulatory text with regard to my role in the Blue Wave. I just happened to notice that.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...." I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...

Liars and Saints

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