I come across pictures all the time. Old ones. Taken back before life got really interesting with four kids. I usually find them all crumpled up under a couch or stashed in between the pages of an old book. Sometimes a corner is ripped off. A sign that my oldest, who is autistic and adores photos of his family, has treasured it and hidden it away for another day. When I found this one I stopped picking up legos and beyblades and internally cursing my kids for being so dang…

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Siblings don’t always get on. They argue, they fight, and sometimes end up in a bust-up on the floor. But normally, each gives their own, taking a swipe and returning a kick. “It builds character,” some might say. But not always. In our house, two of my children have always been separated. Play has always been supervised. They are never left in the same room together. One of them could get seriously hurt, and it would not be the other one’s fault. My son Rhys is nine. He is autistic.…

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It’s been a long day. A tiresome one. But a good one. I found myself with a rare moment of quiet, two of my children at the counter, the other two playing outside. My oldest and my youngest. Cooper and Wynnie. My bookends. I found myself staring at them for a second, wondering what the future holds. The wildcard being autism. Always, autism. When Wynnie was seven days old, Cooper held her for the first time, reassuring me that this would all be okay. As he cradled her, he counted…

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