A couple of years ago, I stopped holding Charlie’s hand on our regular walks around the neighborhood. He was starting to let go more and more, to pull away when he wanted to walk on the grass or stop to examine a crack in the pavement. At first, this seemed like not the best turn of events. How was I to stop Charlie when we came to an intersection? What if he started running away?

At first, I made a point of walking reallyclose and our walks were a bit nerve-wracking, for me at least. And I realized that, for me, the first thing I had to work on was my nerves: I had to stay calm and carry on. Charlie doesn’t talk a lot (in words, that is) but he certainly understands a great, great deal of what he hears, and picks up a lot of non-verbal communication; it’s long been evident that he can sense when we’re mad, or upset, or anxious, or obsessing. And if I broadcast “anxious vibes” when he was walking “hands free,” Charlie would, more often than not, start running.

So we slowly learned to walk together on the sidewalk. Jim and I made rather a big show of stopping when the sidewalk ended and tried to get Charlie to look both ways to see cars coming. It was hard to gauge how much Charlie was understanding when we explained the dangers of cars (and of running into the street). His teachers have worked on crossing the street but the many bike rides that Jim has taken Charlie on in the streets (yes, it’s been hair-raising, on occasion) have been how Charlie, slowly and over time, has learned to watch for cars and to stop at the intersections.

In fact, when Charlie sees a car in the street, he stops, even if the car is not moving.

(If we’re at a busy intersection, we still hold Charlie’s arm or the back of his coat—-you just never know.)

I hadn’t thought of it those many afternoons that Charlie and I walked together up and down suburban New Jersey streets, and that Jim held Charlie’s shoulder and directed him to “squeeze brakes” at the stop signs—-but teaching Charlie to walk beside us, “hands free,” has been an essential skill and has made possible one of our favorite things to do altogether as a threesome, long walks.

It was super freezing cold Sunday afternoon. We all donned various layers (Charlie has taken to wearing a blue fleece-lined hoodie and a parka over it) and went to see the tree at Rockefeller Plaza. That meant walking down Kennedy Boulevard in Jersey City to get to the Journal Square PATH train and a long ride all the way to 33rd Street in Manhattan (it was warm, and there was time to half-snooze) and then down 5th Avenue to the tree. It was less mobbed than it has been in previous years (it was that cold) and we even got a fast glance at the skaters. Charlie craned his neck to glance at some of the shop windows at Saks Fifth Avenue (one with snowflakes riding in the swings—-like the ones at an amusement park—-especially caught his eye). Then back on the subway to Hoboken and a walk up from the waterfront to Washington Street for a hamburger (for Charlie) and then, with Charlie running and singing happily, hurrying back to the PATH station, a Boreas-like wind at our backs. And then back down Kennedy Boulevard.

And you know—on the last two legs of the trip, Charlie held Jim’s hand or my arm and shoulder. Not too tightly, and with a smile.

And then he’d run ahead, both hands tucked under his two hoods, and over his ears, and I could see him up ahead when he stopped at the sidewalk’s edge, waiting.

Actually, that title should read, “It’s just like I thought it would be,” as said by Jim. It was Saturday night and we were having dinner at a restaurant on Mott Street, in Chinatown in New York. We’d avoided the whole Black Friday business/madness and decided also to avoid the crowds going to see the Christmas tree on Rockefeller Plaza near Radio City Music Hall. We’d spent the day around home, with a late breakfast and midday nap for Charlie, and then a bike ride. And then, we drove to Jersey City and took the PATH train into the World Trade Center site—there’s construction going on all the time and you can see some of it—-and then walked past City Hall and into Chinatown.

Charlie had said no to any snacks, even after an hour-long bike ride, so intent was he for “Chinese food” and “white rice.” I ordered him shrimp chow fun—wide and soft rice noodles—and he sat on the edge of his seat, head turned back towards the kitchen where waiters kept emerging with bowls of steaming this or that. An order of gai lan came first, and dumplings, and shrimp sautéed with vegetables. Jim and I picked up our chopsticks and I put a shrimp and some carrots on Charlie’s plate, which he ignored.

He kept looking, and looking, and the waiters kept bringing out more steaming bowls destined for other tables. Two bowls of rice appeared and Charlie said “no” to them, and went back to looking for his chow fun. It finally appeared, though only briefly, as Charlie ate it quickly and efficiently, and topped it off with two fortune cookies (I gave him mine), and a total of six fortunes (because each cookie had three).

We walked home fast back to the PATH station and then  to the black car. Once home, Charlie said “school bus!”—-his internal clock that says that it’s two days off (i.e., Thanksgiving and the day after) and then back to school was fully in operation. He was expectantly crestfallen when I told him he had two more days—the actual weekend—and maybe that disturbance in the usual way of things was what kept him up till 1am.

We all slept in on Saturday, which was not the best thing to do as Jim was planning for him and Charlie to take to see a basketball game (Seton Hall vs. University of Delaware) with Charlie’s godfather at the Prudential Center in Newark. They had to catch a train at 11:54 AM and Charlie was just stirring at 11:20. We coaxed, we set out his clothes, we mentioned getting to see Uncle Mike, we mentioned the train……..I dropped Jim and Charlie off at 11:53 and saw them running up onto the train platform just as the train pulled in.

Charlie wanted to bring his two Leapsters but Jim suspected that no electronics might be allowed in the Prudential Center. We’d explained this to Charlie, and he left them on the black car’s back seat and sat through more than half of the game (the Hall eeked out a win), much of it with Uncle Mike while Jim went to the concessions stands (Charlie made some requests for extra ketchup). They took the train home and Jim called me (working on my book and much appreciating the “time to myself”) to get out the bikes. As soon as Charlie saw them, he came inside and requested his helmet.

As the weather’s gotten colder, Jim has added some cold weather gear in the form of gloves and spandex skull caps that go over their ears (he got two of each in the same size, one for him and one for Charlie). Charlie pulled on his cap and gloves and then the helmet, and they were off on what turned out to be a really long ride, as requested by Charlie.

“Sometimes he goes so fast, it’s not so easy to keep up with him!” Jim said after he and Charlie came back. And then, “It’s great. I just try to keep up.”

Me too, for sure.

I mean, at least two hours each way, to school and then back home? That’s how long 5-year-old Brandon Montanez, who’s autistic, rides the bus to get from his home in Bensonhurst to Learning Springs School in Manhattan, according to yesterday’s WCBStv. Brandon’t bus ride used to be 90 minutes long each way—-already too long—-New York’s Office of Pupil Transportation changed his route (and his driver and bus matron) on short notice and, more than understandably, it hasn’t been easy for Brandon:

“It’s been a nightmare,” says Michelle Montanez, Brandon’s mother. “He was jumping on his seat, he was throwing off his seat belt, he told them that he wanted to scream and he wanted to do it. He started banging his head against the side of the bus and he’s been doing it every day since he’s been on this route. It’s too much for him, it’s too long.”

2 hours each ways is a long bus ride for any of us and not the way for any student to start a long day of learning.

Neurologist Oliver Sacks wrote about animal scientist professor Temple Grandin as an “anthropologist on Mars” and she has referred to herself as an anthropologist from Mars“—-last night, we went to Mars.

Ok, it was Mars 2112 on 51st and Broadway in Manhattan, a “space-themed restarant” that is (according to its website) a “spectacular mingling of fantasy and reality, a 35,000-square-foot, bi-level, multi-dimensional, immersive environment that catapults travelers to a completely new world.” That is: A below-ground restaurant in midtown Manhattan with the usual kidfood and a lot of glowing red lights emanating from the floor via grills and out from behind some clearly synthetic Mars-sort of rock formations on the walls, and a couple of Martians making the rounds (getting their photos taken with kids and teens).

Mars was indeed beyond the orbit of our usual places to visit, at least on a Friday night. We’d been invited to a birthday party for a turning-11-year-old—it’s been awhile since Charlie was last invited to a birthday party and we were eager to go. I suspected the, ahem, “atmosphere of Mars might be on the over-stimluating side, due to noise, lights, the sounds/beeps/etc. emanating from the video arcade. But like I said, it’s been awhile since Charlie was invited to a birthday party and his whole face perked up at the mention of those magic words.

Getting there was extra-arduous as it was pouring rain and traffic was at a standstill on numerous spots on the highway. We made our way in mist and slippery roads to Jersey City and parked the car and, with the birthday girl’s present wrapped in Charlie’s rain coat, made our way to the PATH train. We met up with Jim outside of Radio City Music Hall, amid lies of people all getting distracted looking at the lights (it’s Christmas season for sure, at least in regard to decorations) and the shop windows. It was unseasonably warm and the rain gradually let up.

Mars 2112 turned out to be pretty much as anticipated, certainly in the noise department. Charlie followed Jim in amid the glowing red lights and the staircases amid the Mars-rock walls and past the Cyperport where the video arcades beeped and twinkled. He sat at the end of a long table where some 20 kids were eating White Castle-like sliders and fries and making an incredible amount of noise (not for any particular reason, other than that they were kids at a birthday party in a space-theme eatery). When kids wanted to squeeze past Charlie, he moved over as they directed. He wasn’t so sure about eating those little burgers; his smile was generous when the cake (well-candled) was brought out, and happy singing commenced. When everyone raced off to play video games, Charlie remained at the table, quietly attentive and nibbling at the fries as Jim and I talked to the birthday child’s mother and some friends.

“He reminds me of my brother,” one woman said, her eyes on Charlie who was carefully eating some fries and ketchup. She told me, years ago, her parents had taken her brother to clinics and tried to find out “what” he had; of how he’d been institutionalized when he was younger than Charlie is now; of what happened—-the institution is not there anymore—-there’s a reason; of how he lives now in a group home and how he never talked. Of how, there was so little (as in, flat nothing) for her brother in the 1950s.

And I thought about the journey we’d been on with Charlie and thought, knew, we’ve come a far far way, indeed.

Charlie pulled on his blue hooded sweatshirt as we talked and grabbed his two Leapsters and stood up looking at us, and waiting, quietly, patiently. Waiters cleared off the table, a short Martian danced by, and someone else had a birthday cake delivered. The woman gave Charlie a warm smile as he tugged at Jim’s arm to go and she wished him good-bye, more than kinly.

I’m not sure we’ll be going back to Mars but who needs to, after one visit that was (I have to say it) out of this world, and beyond.

Try as we might, we couldn’t figure out a Halloween costume for Charlie. I found the captain’s hat that was part of last year’s costume (he was, yes, a captain) and Charlie took it off as soon as I placed it on his head. He’s never been too interested in dressing up for Halloween and has usually needed a big of coaxing to trick or treat: Charlie’s wary of walking up strange new walkways; once, a small dog appeared and started barking really loudly just as the door was slowly being opened. Charlie turned and raced back down the walkway and no promise of candy would draw him back, and he’s remained wary about walking into houses he’s never been into (not a bad thing, in and of itself).

Charlie’s class had a little Halloween party with cupcakes and (for those who wanted to dress up) costumes. And instead of going through the whole trick or treat thing, Charlie and I found ourselves heading to Jersey City in the late afternoon, with the plan of parking the car at my office, walking to the getting a new Leapster, Charlie’s been wanting to carry both it and his old one around. They’re a bit awkward to hold and just as I was going to offer to carry them in my bag, Charlie somehow managed to shove both Leapsters into the front pocket of is blue hooded sweatshirt. We proceeded down Kennedy Boulevard, which is a major thoroughfare in Jersey City. Both sides are lined with brick apartment buildings, again woodframe houses, storefronts, and there’s always a steady stream of fast moving traffic. As you get closer to Journal Square, i’s all storefrontss—Goodwill, dollar store, a restaurant adversing a very cheap breakfast as noted by a hand-written sign, a Payless shoe store—-and a Methodist church in front of which people hang out around at all times of the day, a shopping cart packed with plastic bags nearby.

Charlie likes to alternate racing ahead of me with shuffling beside me. Despite the roar of the traffic, he’s very good about following requests to stop, wait, wait up. Usually there’s not a lot of people out walking in the evening but Friday night, the closer we got to Journal Square, the more groups there were of children clad as superheroes, Sponge Bob, princesses, witches, with their mothers pushing younger siblings in strollers and speaking in Spanish or Arabic. Everyone had plastic pumpkins to hold the candy. They weren’t so much ringing doorbells as walking into stores, which apparently, besides selling mattresses or women’s clothing or sneakers, were carrying on an Amrerican childhood tradition.

Charlie and I moved among the trick or treaters. Many of the children’s costumes were completely obscured under winter coats and there were a few crying children, reaching for their plastic pumpkins and “just one more” piece of candy. We crossed Kennedy Boulevard and took the PATH into Manhattan, and then the B train up to where Jim’s office is. We got some take-out of Charlie’s favorites and brought it to Jim’s office where Charlie got to dine on Dad’s desk. Going home, we saw a far greater variety of costumes than one generally sees in a New Jersey suburb. There was a gorilla football player, a mug of beer (complete with foam), a team of Ghostbusters. a couple of accident scene victims……

Charlie kept his hood pulled tight over his ears and those two Leapsters in his front pocket, in his usual way; I’m almost starting to think that blue hooded sweatshirt if a bit of a uniform, comforting in its sameness. Who needs a costume when you know you’re guaranteed the good treat of a night out in good company?

Legislation to provide for insurance coverage for autism treatment has been introduced, and even passed, in many states including my own state of New Jersey; here’s a number of previous posts on this topic. An Associated Press article quotes J.P. Wieske, a lobbyist for an insurance coalition, as saying that “‘This is the hottest trend in mandates we’ve seen in a long time…..It’s hard to fight them.’”

Notable in the Associated Press is mention of families with older children—-11, 12 (same age as my son) who are using ABA therapy. It’s noted that, while there are studies arguing for the benefits of ABA therapy in younger children, research supporting its efficacy for older children are “sparse.”

Some states require behavior therapy coverage up to age 18 or 21. But the scientific evidence for ABA is strongest for the youngest, ages 2 to 5. Some researchers have reported on individual children with autism who no longer appeared disabled when they reached school age.

The most rigorous studies, though, show mixed results. A study published in 2000 showed that preschoolers who got intensive behavior therapy had greater gains in IQ than children who didn’t get the therapy. But there was little difference in the two group’s language development or the intensity of behavior problems. And the children most severely affected by autism showed no comparative gain.

Another study in preschoolers, published in 2005, showed little difference between an intensive ABA-based program run by therapists and less-intensive therapy from parents; children in both groups improved.

When it comes to older children, the research is sparse, said Tristram Smith of the University of Rochester Medical Center in New York, who co-authored the 2000 autism study.

“You could make a decent case for the little kids up to 6 or 7 that (insurance mandates) would be appropriate,” Smith said. “I think it would be hard to make that case for older kids.”

Psychology professor Laura Schreibman of the University of California at San Diego also raises the problem of “‘fly-by-night’ behavior therapists could defraud insurers with ineffective therapy.”

The same questions remain: Are educational treatments like ABA better provided by public schools or private insurers, or by a mix of both? And, how to autistic teenagers and, too, adults—my son is always learning, and I know there’s no deadline for when we stop teaching him.

Back in the summer, I noted that Charlie had discovered the wonders of YouTube, when he and I found that a number of the Barney videos he used to watch, ask to see a thousand times over, and get so upset and over-stimulated over that he’d knock his head on the floor when we turned one on—-that many of these could be found posted on YouTube. For the past two months, he’s been typing in “Barney” and “school” or “good day good night” and sitting on his knees to watch the old familiar scenes. It was in mid-September that he discovered “Let’s Play School” and that’s been the main one he watched, as I realized just how deeply I have indeed memorized many a Barney song (”butterfly, butterfly, fly fly away”…..).

There seemed to be an endless pick of Barney videos and especially of older ones that featured simple sets and—in one video—–parents, besides the purple dinosaur. Charlie typed and watched; Jim proclaimed that he was on a nostalgia kick. Unlike when he was younger, Charlie understood about turning off the videos. He wanted to see them, but he could let go when he had to. Sometimes he asked a lot to see the videos, and other times, not so much, if at all. And then, this past week, when he asked to see a particular song, type in whatever combination of “Barney” and other words, nothing came up, aside from endless clips of the “I Love You” song.

I found the URL—saved in Firefox—of one video and got to a page informing me that a video’d been removed from YouTube for copyright reasons. And that’s what I told Charlie whe he asked to see a video.

He was wistful, asked to see the videos again, heard the “I Love You” clips a couple of times. He shut the lid of the computer, got up, and moved on.

I’d been—-the panic of mothers—-worried that we’d be stuck in eternal Barney-mode once again. I suspect Charlie would like to see those certain videos if he could; I see that he had walk away when what he wants is not available, and there’s no especial big fuss.

Friday night Charlie and I took the train into lower Manhattan to meet Jim for dinner. Charlie likes to walk in front of us, and he stops when we call out “stop” and “wait for us” and “red light.” He peered into every storefront, pausing sometimes in front of the ones with cases of sodas. He sometimes looked hopefully at the door and then quickened his step when we told him to keep going.

Always so much to see and do out in the big wide world, and it’s always best when it’s the three of us, especially when Charlie leads the way.

So after a sunny Sunday topped up with exuberant bike riding and one of his all-time favorite meals at his all-time favorite Jersey hamburger stand, Charlie woke up on Monday morning with heavy-duty sniffles, a gurgly cough, and a hot forehead. Jim had gone out to wait for the bus while I got Charlie ready and I found myself running out to tell Jim that Charlie wouldn’t be going to school today. I went back inside, where Charlie was standing up, rather wobbly, and assured him he could stay home and before you know it he was stretched out on some cushions with a sleeping bag over him, sound asleep.

Jim came back in and asked the next, very pressing question: What were we going to do about work?

It’s a perennial issue for us; it’s the perpetual dilemma of the working mom and dad. Sick child; you both have to work—and even if we had daycare, we couldn’t drop off a sick child there. And I guess at such moments, when your child (however old he is) is coughing and has a hot forehead, that good old instinct kicks in. After briefly considering bringing Charlie with me, and as soon nixing the idea, I sat down and started typing messages to my students to explain that there’d be no class; we’re up-to-date with the syllabus, and one missed class was not going to make a big difference (and we’d still have the weekly Thursday quiz…….). As I was looking over my calendar and Jim was getting ready to walk to the train, I recalled that there was something at 12noon I couldn’t miss, a lunch with my college’s President and students.

“What are you going to do?” Jim asked.

“Email,” I said. “And we’ll see.” Email to an administrative assistant; to students about the classes being cancelled; to a student with a babysitting inquiry. I could drive Charlie in at 11.15am and he’d probably be ok staying in the car—it wasn’t as cold as I thought—and he’d be right in front of my office and if I could just find my student who’d offered to babysit…… I told Jim I’d figure it out.

A sleeping boy on a Monday morning at home. Unexpectedly, everything was quiet and I found myself with a space of time to get something I really needed to get done, done. (Well, more done than I had thought I might be with it on a Monday morning.) I typed, Charlie slept, Jim called me when his train got delayed. A secretary called and we reviewed plans for the lunch and she suggested another student to watch Charlie and I typed really fast, 11am came, and I roused a groggy Charlie.

After a cold start to the morning, the sky was clear and Charlie and I got the full panoramic view of the New York city skyline as we drove in on the Pulaski Skyway. We got into Jersey City and found a small car parked right in the center of the two parking spaces in front of my office; a student told us just to park in front of a neighboring house. (Yes, Jersey City’s streets are pretty crowded.) I hastily introduced Charlie to the student who was going to watch him; he repeated her name and said “no” about getting out of the car. She smiled and—most of the college’s buildings with classrooms are up the hill and a number of student dormitories nearer the bottom, with my office in-between—a couple of her friends were hanging out by my car in a short while.

The lunch turned out very well. When I came back, I saw Charlie through the backseat window but not the student watching him. As I walked up to the car, I saw her sitting beside him in the backseat and opened the door: “He insisted I sit in here with him,” she said. She told Charlie “bye” and he said “bye” in return (and I mentioned that, uh, she wouldn’t have been able to get out because the child safety locks are fastened on the backseat doors).

I looked behind and up (it’s a one-way street going down and not wide) and another student stood in the middle of the street until we had safely backed out, Charlie requesting something to drink.

Funny how what once would have seemed a crisis—Charlie sick! no babysitter! can’t miss work! no parking space unless I drive my car between a cinder block and someone’s bumper—-just becomes part of a day.

In my case, a quiet day with Charlie. And the fact that I got to spend it with Charlie (shopping a little as the fridge was almost empty, eating, slumping in a cushion chair, sniffling, getting really really bored and suddenly longing for “school!!!”, folding laundry, trying to finish that thing that needs to get done, making chicken broth with green onions and garlic)—that made my day.

(Tuesday morning update: Still coughing; another day home for Charlie, with Jim.)

Routine routine routine.

Schedule schedule schedule.

That’s what life raising an autistic child is like, or is often said to be like: You’re locked in a vise of always doing the same old same old, lest the proverbial “all hell” should break loose. So Monday school, Tuesday school and pool, Wednesday school and bowling, Thursday…….

Yesterday, without thinking about it too much, Charlie and I stepped right out of the ol’ routine. On the one hand, he loves it, needs it, craves The Routine: All of our Sunday was punctuated with Charlie stopping to catch Jim’s or my eye, pausing, and intoning “school tomorrow.” We would reply “yup” or “yes, school” or “school tomorrow!” and he’d repeat the phrase a few times and then walk away, satisfied.

In fact, after enough of these assurances for the better part of a mostly lazy Sunday, Charlie told me he wanted to practice the piano, swam a couple of laps in the pool after a sluggish start (he had fallen asleep in the car en route), and biked off with Jim for several miles till dusk was falling. He asked for rice and opened a cabinet and took out a bag, then sat with his right cheek on the table and a hand beneath, watching it cook. Monday morning he awoke on his own, put on what I think is becoming a favorite shirt—-it’s got turquoise sleeves and the San Jose Sharks shark—-and Jim out him on the bus. His Monday was “stellar”; he was noticeably taking more initiative in the classroom and was fine working with different instructors.

My own students had been unusually sleepy and (at my 9am class) more than a few were either late or absent. We’ve been almost a month into classes and I wondered if the reality of being back in school had really hit, and they were weighed down beneath the thought of how many more months there are till the semester ends. The second class, which is much smaller (it’s a class in Elementary Ancient Greek), was characteristically quiet as I called students to write out declensions on the dry erase board and then (to my surprise), livelier when I launched into an explanation of how to accent ancient Greek words—-it’s a dry topic and a hard one, but they seemed game. Afterwards, students had questions about applying to graduate school—-someone wanted to drop a course—an editor for the student newspaper stopped by and we proofread several articles together—I had a quick conferral with a colleague and then realized it was after 2pm and I ran out the door and got home in time for the bus, despite a lane closure on the Pulaski Skyway (which is two lanes wide) and an accident.

I got too insistent about Charlie putting away the containers from his lunchbox before he had his afterschool snack, as he informed me. I felt foolish but promptly admitted it and Jim called and I said that we’d go into New York for a visit—-not exactly what we usually do on a Monday afternoon.

Jim’s going out of town tonight to give a lecture in southern California so I figured Charlie and I would have plenty of time to do “the usual.” Monday was the nicest fall weather day and by 4.30pm Charlie and I were on the road and off to Jersey City, where we parked the car near my office and headed down Kennedy Boulevard to catch the PATH train, me with two bags one over each shoulder. One had my stuff and Charlie’s Leapster, and the other—it fit perfectly in a big navy bag—the Dustbuster. (Charlie carried it for a few blocks too.)

Yes, you read that right. My Target-purchased, cyclonic action Dustbuster. Let me just say that Jim has just finished a book he’s been working on since the time Charlie was a baby—it’s on what Jim calls the Irish waterfront—and there are lots of books and papers, plus books and papers for more projects that are being attended to, plus the fact that last weekend while I was at a lecture on talking about autism, Charlie was having a fine dinner on Jim’s desk and Vietnamese spring rolls have a lot of shredded items in them, from carrots to green onions to cilantro. Top that off with a few packs of soy sauce and ginger and some brownie crumbs (and other kinds of crumbs) and sure there is a cleaning staff for the building, but how can you vacuum the floor if it’s covered in documents that need to be where they are?

It was a job for a sturdy Dustbuster.

Charlie had another dinner on Jim’s desk and then, having recharged the Dustbuster’s batteries, Jim then I set to work on the carpet and every nook and cranny, especially around an aging radiator. Charlie helped himself to an office chair and gave himself several rides up and down the empty corridor and I scrubbed and Jim stacked, and (mindful of it being Monday), we hurried onto the 59th Street subway, Charlie running excitedly ahead into a Manhattan night towards Columbus Circle and calling ……

Yeah, school.

We made it home by 9.30pm and before you know it, Charlie had taken himself to bed with a pile of blankets and the Leapster. And the Dustbuster was all charged up for action again.

The National Institute of Mental Health calls off a study on chelation as a treatment for autistic children. Safety concerns are cited and it also needs to be noted that the reasons for using chelation to “treat” autistic children rest on an unproven hypothesis about autism causation, that autistic children have mercury and/or “heavy metals” in their body, from vaccines or something in vaccines or the environment.

Other news:

• Move Over, Cupcake
  The votes are in for brownies around here.
• What It’s Like: Life with Charlie and a Poem (and the VICP)
  “Simile” is the title of one of my favorite poems from Line Dance (Word Press 2008) by Barbara Crooker.
• Public Schools, Private Insurance
  Do you think it’s better in the long run to rely on public schools districts or for private insurance companies for autism treatments?
• Help Needed; and, Is Autism Different in Girls?
  Thank you for some very helpful comments to a mother with a 7 year old daughter.
• The Supercharged Brain
  New research posits that autistic individuals—far from earlier notions that they were without emotions and the capacity to feel—-”‘perceive, feel and remember too much’” and very intensely.
• What Do You Look At In a Crowded Room?
  A new study highlighted in the September 16th Scientific American looks at eye tracking to investigate the “unusual social preferences and behaviors in people with Williams syndrome and autism.
• Palin on Curing “Dreadful Diseases,” Not on Disability
  Following up on Vice-Presidential candidate Sarah Palin saying that, should Sen John McCain and her be elected, she will focus on “special needs.”
• Ian Hacking on How We Have Been Learning to Talk About Autism
  Prof. Hacking looks at recent autobiographies by autistic persons as well as “parental biography, fictions, stories for children, and above all blogs,” to argue that these perform “an essential part of transforming the conception that severely autistic people lead ‘thin’ emotional lives into a vision of a far richer mode of existence.”
• Should Only Disabled Actors Be Cast in Disabled Parts?
  See also Joel Smith’s post on this question.