My 10-year-old son can change from an adorable, quirky little dude to an aggressive screamer in a second. He sinks so far, so fast, that I forget about his strengths and drown in his weaknesses. I wish I could make it stop.

There’s a diagnosis that explains it: autism.

James has an average IQ and attends school with non-autistic children. He’s good at sports, math and guitar. People notice him, because he sticks out from the crowd in a good way. Wearing an authentic jersey to an NFL game isn’t enough. He also wears shoulder pads, a helmet and a sweat towel tucked in the front of his football pants.

James has a talent for voicing thoughts. Once in a doctor’s waiting room he exclaimed, “Mom, that loud TV is making me nervous, and I’m here to get my blood drawn, so I’m already nervous enough.” Several people applauded, and I asked the receptionist to turn off the TV.

I know the symptoms of James’s autism are less profound than what a nonverbal, institutionalized adult with the same diagnosis experiences. But as his mother, that’s not my reference point.

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