by Jane Kay

Created on: November 23, 2009   Last Updated: December 03, 2009

Running around the kitchen preparing lunch, I opened the refrigerator and noticed, peripherally, my child sitting on the carpeted floor, lining up three Lego pieces. I still remember the colors; they were green, red, and yellow in a crooked but distinct line.

Therein began the worst period of my life, and with it, the birth of my love for gardening.

She was only 13 months in age when it all started. She was quite the beautiful child. She smiled a lot, and had tremendous focus for her age, and while she expressed some irrational qualities like her refusal to enter Wal-Mart even in a stroller, she was also, in many ways, the easiest child in the world. She wasn't needy, and preferred to play by herself. She was a twin, and the interaction between her and her sister was unique; they barely played together, but then co-existed beautifully too, in complete silence. Athletically inclined, this little toddler could be watching television at one moment, and then found atop the refrigerator with nobody aware of how she got up there, or balance on a windowsill looking out at the front of the house for as long as I would let her.

We used to joke that she had the power of teletransportation; that she was charmed. I never did figure out how she climbed the refrigerator, but it soon became clear that she was going to climb to the top of the world by any means necessary. She'd pile books, chairs, and cushions together to be able to sit at the top of everything and anything, and if she wanted to go out, she'd create some type of pile to reach to the security locks or chains and just leave. When I would discover her plan and scold her, this small child would immediately plug her ears, as if she knew she was in trouble.

Smart and conniving, I used to think; that is, until the day an online friend, in response to a story I had written regarding my baby-girl's antics, wrote a reply with only one crude comment, "You know autistic kids plug their ears a lot due to hearing sensitivities."

Being an avid researcher, I was angered by her ridiculously cold and obviously inappropriate comment. "Just because her own son is autistic, I can't believe she'd even infer mine is!" I screamed to myself. To prove her wrong, I did a quick search on "autism symptoms" and before I got to read a single written word, I came across a little photo of the most adorable blonde boy with a stack of books piled on the ground, reaching for the top of the television.

My blood turned cold.

Six hours through

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