A few days ago, I continued my yearly tradition of sniffing my armpits, checking in at the office, and nervously entering my older son’s classroom to tell his life story. James had a few medical setbacks early in life and is autistic, and I wear black to these talks not because I’m in mourning about any of that but because kids are brutally honest and I tend to sweat buckets in such vulnerable situations. I started these talks four years ago, when James was in first grade and a classmate’s answer to the teacher’s question of “what are you grateful for?” was “that I’m not autistic.” So…anger is what started this. Incandescent maternal rage, even. Not bravery or strength.

A lot has changed since then. And a lot hasn’t.

Read the rest over at Mockingbird!