Happy People Like You

One of the greatest things about having children--aside from the perpetuation of your genetic material and the necessity of having sex to do so--is that you again have an excuse to listen to Sesame Street albums. It's not just that the songs are catchy and clever and rife with jokes that only an adult would get, but that everyone involved

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Social Skills

Raising an autistic child is a little different than raising a neurotypical. For instance, the other day The Queen and I had this exchange:Me: Squiggle is getting really good at talking to strangers. The Queen: I know, isn't it great?And today there was this:Me: How was the library? The Queen: Okay, but there was little boy about Squiggles age playing

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Scholar Squiggle

So how is Squiggle? Well, I'm glad you asked. Squiggle is terrific. He started preschool a few months ago, a small class run by FEAT (Families for Early Autism Treatment). Ten students total, ranging from the middle to the high-end of the spectrum. One boy shares Squiggle's hyperlexia, and I understand they get along like constants and vowels. They spend

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Know-It-All

We're trying to get The Squiggle to say "I don't know" when he doesn't, well, know something. It's rough going, because it turns out that he's a bluffer par excellence. If he doesn't know what something is, he just makes something up. But there's no hint of deception. He really sells it.{I hold up a Hotwheels.} Me: What's this? Squiggle:

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Tilt

Squiggle was walking around the house yesterday, counting to himself. I realized he had reached the nineties and was curious to know what would happen, so I stopped to listen."ninety-six" "ninety-seven" "ninety-eight" "ninety-nine"Here he paused for a moment and thought. Then:"Zero-zero!" Oh, great. Kid's got a rollover error.

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Photo Finish

Squiggle's daycare was creating emergency kits for each child. One of the things they asked the parents to supply was pictures of themselves. That way, if there was a natural disaster, and the child was separated from his caregivers, he could at least find comfort in seeing them in a photograph. It's embarrassing how long we agonized over this. We

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Pa-mit

Father's Day fell on Friday in the Baldwin household this year. Squiggle was sitting in my lap as I read stories, kind of leaning against me listlessly, as he had been feeling under the weather all day and had eaten very little. Then, without preamble, he leaned over and gave me my gift early: BLAAARGH! Awww. He made it himself--how

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Squiggle

The Squirrelly is inexplicably three. I have no idea how that happened. It's as if time were some sort of nonspatial continuum in which events occur in irreversible succession from the past through to the future, or something. And while "The Squirrelly" suited him well when he was an infant and toddler, a more dignified blogonym seems appropriate for someone

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