My son turns eight in August. And fifteen minutes before writing this, I had to pull the feces from between his buttocks and scold him for using a towel to clean more from the toilet seat. He then burst into tears, demanded “hug!” and punched himself repeatedly in his own chin as I attempted to re-center myself, clean his mess, and avoid the mental loop that begins with ‘I hate this’ because it tends to end with ‘I hate my life.’ Because I don’t hate my life, but this latest incident reminded...

Storm, Rogue, and the Cure for Autism: