I walked into the house yesterday after work to find my daughter simultaneously (a) microwaving a pile of dimes and (b) painting several empty plastic containers - with nail polish - on my kitchen countertop (and no newspaper beneath them, of course).

Can blood pressure be measured on the Richter Scale? Because I think mine might have registered as far away as Chile.

After reminding her (and the babysitter - what was she thinking?) that we do not microwave metal or paint without a dropcloth - nevermind using Mom's favorite nail polish color - and opening all the windows to chase the smell of burning metal from my kitchen, I tried to get to the bottom of this latest debacle.

"Why in God's name would you microwave dimes?" I asked.

"That magician does it. I forget his name."

"And what happens when he does?"

"I don't know."

I stood with my mouth agape at the sheer ridiculousness of this idea, which led to some intense conversation and the viewing of a couple of Youtube videos detailing the idiocy of this project. I then reminded her again that we don't paint anything without a newspaper or the old plastic tablecloth under us. Ever. That is why we have the old, plastic tablecloth, after all.

I love the urchin, but she tests me. Oh, how she tests me.

I once sported a black eye for a week when she stealth-ninja'd into my bedroom in the middle of the night, placed her face nose-to-nose with mine and whispered "Mom!" This caused me to shoot off the bed, grab my chest with one arm and flail with the other as I fell back down, sliding sideways until my face hit the edge of the nightstand.

All this, to find out that she farted and it smelled like spaghetti.

And let's not forget the time she invited a friend to sleep over, changed it to "maybe two" instead of one, and then walked through the door with five girls behind her later that evening, all bearing sleeping bags.

Or the time she greased the floor of the shower with baby oil because she wanted to slide around on her naked butt after her shower the night before. I went to work the next morning with a sore knee from where I took out the sliding shower door.

I have to admit, I indulge her wild ways, to a degree. It secretly thrilled me when she was six and some of her girlfriends wanted to play dress-up, style their hair and walk imaginary runways while she was calmly packing a backpack with books, a ball of rubber bands, two stuffed animals, silly putty and a pair of tweezers to go on "an adventure".

The truth is, she's the daughter I've always wanted. Fierce and imaginative and funny and unafraid.

And I wish for her a daughter who's just like she is someday. That thought keeps the smile on my face while I chip away at the nail polish on the counter.

He's eight. He good at playing Wii games. He loves to eat bacon. Just like so many other kids his age. But unlike those kids, my son has to work every day to accomodate the world he lives in.

According to the newest batch of statistics, Autism has increased 78% in the United States alone. What used to be a 1/110 ratio is now a 1/88 ratio - with one out of every fifty-six boys now being identified as belonging on the autism spectrum.

I don't really feel that autism has grown so much as our ability to recognize and diagnose it has. Children with Autism Spectrum Disorder used to be grouped in a lot of different disabilities that didn't really speak to all of their disorder. They were "slow learners", "hyper", "high-strung", "overly-sensitive", "needed speech therapy", "shy", or any plethora of labels you wanted to give them. Some fit some of the time, some didn't fit at all. None were the right fit, because we're talking about a spectrum, a whole host of behaviors that may present themselves as identifiers. And just like everyone else, no two autistic children are the same. More specifically, no two autistic children have autism in exactly the same way.

Autism is being diagnosed at a much higher rate. Many more children are being recognized as being on the Autism spectrum. It's sad because this means more families, like mine are affected, and more families, like mine are struggling with the impact of autism on their lives.

But it also means my son is far from alone. It means that now, they have to take notice, to learn that not all children use their brains in exactly the same way, to understand that communication is so much more than words on a piece of paper or a computer screen or even words that come out of your mouth. When Autism becomes more of the minority, it can no longer be ostracized as easily by the majority.

There's nothing "wrong" with my son. You need to know that. His brain is perfect, his intelligence level is right on track with his peers (and exceeds them in some areas), he's thoughtful, he's kind, he's respectful, and he has an entire lifetime to give to humanity. I refuse to allow him to be pidgeonholed because his neurons fire in a different rhythm or his synapses don't connect the same way yours and mine do.

He is not less for it.
He is more.

Imagine, if you will, that you were abducted by aliens in the night, and found yourself awakening on an entirely different planet. Here, the sun is a hundred times brighter, the atmosphere is full of strong and not always pleasant, full of smells that turn your stomach or burn your nose. When the people who are indigineous to the planet try to speak to you, they speak an odd form of English and you only understand every third word. Instead of smiling when they're happy, they blow their noses. When they're angry, they shake hands. You can't seem to figure them out at all. To make it worse, the material used for your clothing is making you itch unbearably, and all the food you've been offered is very spicy, very salty, or the texture makes you gag.

And everyone is expecting you to just adjust.

So you do.

What choice do you have, really? This is the world you're living in, after all. It's not like you can go anywhere else.

So you eat their food (or at least, the kinds you can stomach). You wear the scratchy clothes and with some minor modifications, you get used to it. You run a script in your head of what gesture goes with what emotion, so you can act appropriately. You learn their language, but if they talk fast you still find yourself struggling to understand and relying on other cues to not appear to be stupid when someone talks to you.

And this you must do for the rest of your life. You find ways around, ways to work through, tricks that help you, but it's always something you have to consciously do, because it's just not the way you are.

Tell me then, who's the stronger person? The person showing the most skill? The person working harder every single day?

My son is a stranger to this world in many ways, but with the numbers growing and being recognized, maybe it's time we realized that we're all in this world together, and we can find ways to meet halfway and make it work.

Lets make it work for all of us.

But won't make much sense if you haven't read the book.

A party I can believe in!

My heart is bleeding today for popfiend, on the loss of his beloved wife, Lisa. I know the hole in my heart is nothing compared to what he's feeling right now, and I wish so very much that my arms could reach across the miles between us. You are loved, O. Know that. And your marriage is what I hope someday to have with someone as wonderful as your beautiful Lisa was to you.