If you’ve ever had the privilege of loving someone on the autism spectrum, you know that so much of life is spent learning things that seem to come naturally to everyone else.

There is something about a first birthday that feels a little like standing at the edge of the ocean, watching the tide pull something precious back out to sea.

I should have just eaten chocolate.

Maybe you need to stop for a minute and ask yourself: What would I miss?  Who would I miss?

Yes, I am still here. Not necessarily in one piece, but here nonetheless.

I am hanging on by a thread.

Something is coming.

Not in a dramatic, thunderclap sort of way.  No.  This is quieter.  More sinister.

Confidence got the best of me, and instead of stepping off the curb like a cautious, aging adult, I did a little hop. A jaunty exit.

I’m highly skilled. Award-winning, even. No one has formally acknowledged it, but still.

The hardest part of living on this island is knowing I will not stay.

A new phase of island life has begun: The High Chair.

This is where the youngest inhabitant begins sampling local cuisine.

The greatest compliment you can give the eight-year-old in this season is that her baby sister looks just like her.

I attempted a shower.
A luxury. A gamble. A move that suggests confidence. Everything is easier with the second baby.
Wrong.

During my first stay on the island, I survived almost entirely on peanut butter sandwiches.

This was not a visit. This was a full day deployment. He woke here. He stayed.

The island has felt safer lately.

Isolating, yes. Repetitive. Crumb-covered. But safe.

I have ventured back into civilization. It has been one full year since my last haircut. This is not a style choice. This is historical evidence.

I am weary. Milk-stained. Spiritually defeated. The day has taken much from me. Then… I hear it.

The door.