What Donald Trump Can Teach Us About Behaviour

Like a lot of Canadians, I suspect, my family have spent more time thinking and talking about U.S. politics in the last few years than ever before. Among other symptoms of this peculiar and unbecoming habit was the inclusion of a fair bit of U.S.-focused podcasts in our listening habits. One of the podcasts my husband has been listening to is called "What Trump Can Teach Us about Con Law". In the days following the U.S. election, I found myself reflecting on what Trump can teach us about behaviour, hence the title for this post. 

Everyone except those closest to him can see they are dealing with someone who has been insulated, by family and handlers and privilege, from the consequences of his actions for, presumably, his whole life. He has, reportedly, taken unfair advantage of others in matters financial and personal, routinely lied without being called on it (or, if called on it, doubled down on those lies), been verbally, physically and sexually abusive, and on it goes. What makes him think he can get away with it, we ask? Of course the answer is simple: because the people in his life prevented him from ever experiencing the consequences of his actions. 

So what does this remind us of? Nothing more or less than the long-term consequences of insulating our loved ones from the consequences of their own actions and choices. We do this for love, out of fear,  to prevent potential harm (of all types), to save time, and for many other very good reasons. Maybe I'm a meanie, but I take a small, secret amount of pleasure whenever my son suffers (mildly) as the result of his failure to make his own choices, whether that be getting wet because he didn't check the forecast (or the sky), or not being able to purchase something he desires because he didn't monitor his bank balance, or anything else that is perhaps unpleasant or unhappy-making, but not actually dangerous. 

Worker dogs and petter dogs

 For mysterious reasons, my guy has always called service dogs "worker dogs", which is a pretty reasonable term, all things considered. At some point in his life he must have either been corrected for trying to pet such a dog, or witnessed someone corrected for that, but he unfailingly calls attention to dogs that are not "worker dogs". Recently we encountered a very enthusiastic black puppy on the street, the kind that throws themself at your legs and strains so hard on the leash they end up practically horizontal. As we walked away from that encounter, Devon announced that that was a "petter" dog. So that's what we call them these days!

"something is different: different is good"

Fans of the movie Groundhog Day will probably recognize the source for the title of this post. My husband and I are big fans of that movie and the quote in the title of this post has become a catchphrase of ours to use whenever our son does something he has never done before or even something that he has steadfastly argued against doing for years and then just, you know, starts doing it. This includes things like eating foods he would never touch before, taking pills when he has a bad cold, adjusting to changes in schedule and routine, and all that sort of stuff. None of these are life-changing, but still worth celebrating. 

One of these changes is around food choices: the homeless shelter where he volunteers provides a lunch that essentially consists of whatever has been donated recently, and he's done astonishingly well at eating things he would never have eaten before, either because there are no other options, because he's hungry after working all morning, or because of the community-type setting for the meal, who knows?

Another change, most recently, was around pop drinking. This is a guy who loves his colas (Pepsi or Coke) and has successfully argued (in his own way) that the diet versions are slightly more acceptable then the regular ones. My husband and I tend to drink ginger ale, when we drink pop at all, and often have one of those 2 litre bottles in the fridge. Up until now, Devon has completely ignored this beverage, but recently I found him pouring himself a glass. Why? Because at a recent yard sale he bought a set of four glasses with different pop logos on them, and I guess he figured the closest he'd come to Sprite was ginger ale, so he started drinking it from that glass. [updated March 2022] 

Who's perseverating now?

When my son was young he was given a fairly uncommon diagnosis on the autism spectrum (PDD-NOS, which I came to think of as meaning "no clue what's up, but he ain't normal"). As a result of the diagnosis, for a number of years I was fairly active in the autism community in Toronto, even though in retrospect any autism-related diagnosis seems inappropriate for him. I suspect the world of autism has changed in the years since then, but one of the characteristics I recall being from those early days was "perseverating", and whatever the actual meaning is, I understood it to mean feeling compelled to do certain things repeatedly or even ritualistically.  

So when I found myself at a Walmart at 7 am on a workday because I couldn't find any small glass bottles of Coke in the local grocery stores and my shopping app told me Walmart had some, that was perseverating. And why was I looking for glass bottles of Coke? Because back when my son's Coke passion began, I somehow got the bright idea of putting a small glass bottle of Coke in his Christmas stocking. And here we are, roughly 25 years later, and I'm still doing it. Also in the Christmas stocking? An orange. Why? Because my mother did that. Why did she? Because she was British, and from a working class family, and in her childhood an orange was an unparalleled treat. And why do I wrap small trinkets in tissue paper (not Christmas wrapping paper) for placing in said stockings? Because she did that too, although I don't really know why. And why do the stockings go on the end of each child's bed? Same answer, although how she had the patience to wait for 5 unruly children to fall asleep on Christmas Eve I have no idea. 

So I have to ponder this - why is a behaviour that we "normal" people do, with no more logical reason than tradition, considered perfectly acceptable, while behaviours that people with autism or other disabilities do without apparent logical reason considered a pathology that needs to be fixed?    

5 Things My Son Learned to Do After Age 21

If college/university isn't an option, it sometimes seems like everyone assumes that after age 21, there's nothing much our kids can really learn, at least not if they have significant cognitive challenges. Here's a list of 5 things my kid has learned since leaving school: they might not sound big to some people, but I'm kinda proud of them.

(1) How to take pills. Leaving aside the bad old days of a serious seizure disorder where he was on liquid medications, my kid is pretty darned healthy. He tends to have only two modes: perfectly well and too sick to get out of bed. However, being able to take pills is a pretty basic life skill, so I figured I better get around to it. We started, as people do with small kids, with small candies, and then moved to a multi-vitamin. It was surprisingly difficult to find out how big a particular multi-vitamin might be, since they all come in opaque cases, but with a little help from the people at Noah's, we bought a bottle of Platinum Naturals Easymulti multivitamins. They are gel pills, and quite narrow (though long). We added a regiment of taking them at breakfast, and picked up a cool pill dispenser at the dollar store that helps him keep track of whether or not he has taken it (like the one below, but with day names on the compartments). Now I feel a little better knowing that if he's prescribed an actual medication he will at least know how to swallow it. 

(2) How to use a Presto card.

(3) How to ride in a WheelTrans vehicle (typically a cab) with different drivers and often different co-riders.

(4) How to wear sunglasses. One of his program gave some out to thank people for their volunteer work, and he absolutely loved them (he wears them over his regular glasses) and always checks the weather to see if he should wear them. (I got the eye doctor to check them out and make sure they were safe.) He looks just a little goofy in them, but who am I to judge? We keep our eye out for this particular model everywhere we go, in case he loses them, which would be a major issue.

(5) How to use a debit card: a skill that became particularly useful when the pandemic hit!

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In Praise of Audio Books

 Although I have no memory of my parents reading bedtime stories to me, I do remember my father talking about how his own mother would sit on the landing outside his and his siblings' bedrooms and read to them. I read to my kids, and my husband used to read to me at bedtime, until we discovered that being read to makes me fall asleep so fast that he'd end up reading to an unconscious wife for 20 minutes or so, causing much confusion when he took up the story again the next evening. And of course we read books to our own kids when they were small. We are very much a family of readers, library users, and book collectors.  

A few years back I discovered quite by accident that playing an audio book in the car was not only entertaining for me but also appeared to greatly reduce my son's anxieties when travelling by car to an unfamiliar place or for a non-routine purpose. Listening to a book doesn't put him to sleep, but it does pretty much eliminate his anxiety-driven chatter and frequent requests for reassurance about our trip. As a bonus, when you return an audio book you checked out on one of the library apps, the app keeps track of where you left off, which is handy if you have to return it before you're done. 

For shared listening I tend to check out classic books that we are already familiar with, like A Wrinkle in Time or The Hobbit, to name two of the more successful audio adaptations we've listened to. It really is astonishing how peaceful and calm car travel becomes when accompanied by well-written and well-read stories. It appears that the attention my son has to devote to listening to the story reduces the amount of attention he has left over to devote to whatever he is worried about. I recommend listening to a selection from the book before committing to it, though, since some voices seems more suited to the content than others, but otherwise this is another example of one of the great riches available to us (for free!). 

Bring on the consequences!

 I am not a particularly Pollyann-ish kind of person (does that expression date me? of course it does!) but I confess I do find one tiny sliver of positivity in the current mess we are all living in. With so much less of my son's life being scheduled, with programs accessed by booting up a computer at the last minute rather than the usual routine: packing for the day, finding a jacket and hat, waiting for WheelTrans, travelling to and fro, dealing with weather-related and other delays, and so on, there is time  for stuff to just happen. Or, more importantly, not happen, but in a more natural way, without interventions. 

Despite my best intentions, and my attempt to polish my "mean mom" reputation, the reality is that I never really did let my son just miss a day's activities because he wasn't ready in time, or go hungry all day because he failed to make or take his lunch: the consequences for me were more than I was willing to put up with. But now  the world has delivered a whole new world of natural consequences. Didn't get dressed? Be (perhaps) embarrassed on your zoom meeting when you friends see you in your pyjamas. Didn't plan your outing for the day? Guess you'll waste valuable time figuring that out when your helper arrives rather than doing what you actually want to do. Didn't think ahead about lunch or supper for tomorrow? Forage in the kitchen like the rest of us. Admittedly, I have to pretty much tackle my husband, The Great Enabler, in order to execute on this, but I'm giving this a good old try.

In praise of uneven paths

Our son is often a chatter box, a never-ending stream of language made up of well-worn bits from favourite TV shows or DVDs, requests for information you just gave him, general complaints about what is currently happening, expressions of desire (or dislike) for whatever comes next. It's not a quiet household when he's around and although I recognize that some portion of this chatter  (maybe all of it) is anxiety-related, it's not always easy to live with.

We've always been a family of walkers, and are lucky enough to live within walking distance of the lake, grocery stores and fruit markets, even (back in the day) a Zellers that is now a much-less-interesting (to him, anyway) hardware store. We often walk in the city, typically getting off the subway one or two stops away from where we need to go so we can just explore the neighbourhoods we encounter.

A number of years back we discovered, pretty much by accident, the joys and benefits of walking on more challenging surfaces. I'm not talking about proper hiking, with special equipment and backpacks and camping out and such (and let's not talk about that near-vertical stretch of the Bruce Trail my husband steered us on last year on a visit to North Bay). Our quest is for paths that are not only not paved, but not even groomed, that are pitted with rocks and roots and are uneven underfoot, preferably with intermittent light and shade that reveal and obscure the landscape and footing. And although the health benefits are undeniable, here's the benefit we truly treasure: in those conditions Devon is utterly silent for extended periods of time. When you live with a chatterbox, you treasure any silence you can enjoy while sharing his presence. I think of those walks as enforced mindfullness: he is simply forced to focus on every step and, presumably, think of nothing else. He has to be mindful just to stay safe and comfortable: there's nothing abstract or theoretical about it. He never articulates how these walks make him feel, but he also doesn't complain when we embark on one. It's like walking meditation, but again, and I can't stress this enough, the meditation comes from the ruggedness of the terrain.

We've begun collecting a list of some of our favourite rough paths, like the conservation area north of Ball's Falls in Hamilton where you are often walking on a bed of rocks, the north end of the Rouge River park in Toronto where you get lots of different conditions, and Starkey Hill, a conservation area that is pretty much up one hill and down another, right next to a farmers field outside Guelph. To say nothing of the Oakridges Moraine, yet another place where you can be in close proximity to a city but seem to be in the wilderness.

These walks are that rarest of things: a win-win-win situation. We get some much-needed exercise plus a bit of a break from our son's often relentless chatter, and he gets both exercise and what I like to think is also some respite from whatever activities are happening in his brain that leads him to so often verbally seek validation, clarification and, heaven help us, repetition. In fact, if the day is coming to a close and we haven't gone for a walk, he'll remind us to do one, even if it's just one of our standard in-town routes (code-named "school", which is a neighbourhood walk that takes us past, yes, a school; "baby park", so named not because there are babies in the park but because the walk takes us through a small park that is stocked with toys and activities even when there are no children there, "ravine", which takes us through the Glen Stewart ravine which, depending on whether you go from south to north or vice versa, can be quite a little workout, or "Fallingbrook", which takes us through the streets of that fancy neighbourhood to the south of us.

I use a free app "AllTrails" that uses my mobile phone connection to identify nearby treails, which is helpful when travelling. Also check out Ontario Trails.

Sailing through Daylight Savings Time: a lesson in natural consequences and respecting choices

I can't remember when we first got a watch for our son, but he seems to have been wearing one forever. We chose a relatively simple digital design (a challenge to find, which is why we bought a couple) with an expanding wrist band because his coordination wasn't up to the challenges of a conventional strap. In those days he was highly resistant to anything new, but for some reason, he took to that watch instantly, wearing it to bed, in the pool, in the bath, everywhere. The precision and lack of ambivalence of the digital read-out is, I suspect, highly appealing, and undiminished by the fact that these days it's hard to find something that doesn't tell you the time. (The time shown on his watch apparently over-rides that of his numerous electronic devices.) However, his awareness is of the time, not so much time itself. This leads to exchanges like:
Me - "Time to head upstairs for bed (for a 10:00 transition to bedtime)"
Him - "It's only 9:59!"
Me - <sigh> 

I have yet to make him understand that a minute or two spent arguing is actually less pleasant than simply complying.

One of the routine problems we encounter with his devotion to his watch, of course, is the twice a year Great Daylight Savings Time Crisis. First, we tried sneaky - my husband would creep into Devon's room late at night, remove the watch, change the time, and slip it back on his wrist, but that only worked a few times - very soon, no ninja could have overcome our kid's sensitivity to any such attempts, no matter what the hour. A couple of times we waited until he was in his swimming lesson (from which the watch was banned), and change it then. Then we tried demands - he couldn't do whatever was the desired activity of the moment until he handed over his watch for correction. And he would watch over the procedure as if observing open heart surgery being performed on his newborn (which is why my husband always had this specific task, since I am apparently incapable of mastering the obscure combination of buttons required, even without my kid's fierce scrutiny).

Then he grew up, and we grew up too, and I decreed that he could voluntarily hand over the watch for the time change, learn to do it himself, or live with being out of sync with the rest of the world ( until he was willing to relinquish the precious time piece for the length of time it took to adjust the time. Each time this strategy was used, it took less and less time before he choose to have his watch changed, as his awareness of being out of step increases (aided by the fact that he surrounds himself with electronics which magically adjust their own time).

A while back the time change occurred when my husband was out of town. He cleverly attributed the non-requirement to have his watch changed to the absence of my husband (I overheard him saying "when dad is back he will fix it"). He eagerly greeted my husband's return,  handed over the watch, and went his merry way without another comment. Now this is routine: he asks for the watch to be changed and it's a complete non-event.

The lessons I learned in this multi-year experiment were to never forget to make the best use of natural consequences, to just respect your kid's choices, let them have more ownership over their life choices, recognize what truly is the small stuff and really none of your business, and never back him into a corner just to meet some standard of conventionality that matters not a jot in the general scheme of things.

A little less convenience goes a long way

I remember hearing a show on CBC radio one evening where they were talking about a ridiculously fit, healthy and long-lived group of people living somewhere in a rural part of Europe (maybe an island?) who were the subject of a study to examine the secret to their longevity. I recall that the researcher described a very rural, challenging, life, where simply getting through the day required a significant degree of physical effort. Without electricity, many household chores were done by hand, entertainment involved gathering as a community (an activity that involved a lengthy walk), and so on. He contrasted this existence with our comparative life of ease, where we routinely drive to and from work (or the gym), buy prepared meals, use remote controls to access our entertainment or, increasingly, carry it around in our pockets in the form of smart phones. For most of us, there are few opportunities for natural exercise, and all too often we actively work to conspire against those opportunities, choosing the comfort and convenience of the car. The researcher said something to the effect that it wouldn't be necessary to recreate the physical environment of the people being studied to gain some of their benefits. He commented that making it just a little harder to get your snacks (having the kitchen on a separate floor from the rec room) or seeking out even slight inconveniences (taking the parking spot farthest away from your destination) would be helpful..

What does this have to do with life with someone with a developmental disability? I'm sure I'm not the only parent who has many, many strategies for making things convenient for my son (and, not coincidentally, for me too). Whether that means ensuring that some situations never arise or smoothing over those unexpected bumps in the road, I unconsciously go about daily life with at least part of my brain attempting to anticipate and deal with inconveniences, changes in routine, or situations that will cause stress or distress. I even notice that I do it to facilitate things I don't particularly want my son to do, which is pretty stupid when you think about it: how much effort did I just expend trying to get an outdated computer game working on his newer laptop when he plays that game way too much as it is?

So I've been trying to move in a different direction, to make things just a little bit harder. One example of making things difficult with a purpose was how I managed to ensure he got in the habit of calling me when he arrived home from school or program to an empty house. The trick? I simply hid his beloved Nintendo DS. Inevitably he'd call me to ask where the DS was, and eventually this turned into him automatically calling when he got home, even when he was no longer looking for that device. He still mostly calls when he wants something, or wants to tell me something, but the habit was formed by making his life just a little bit more difficult. I also strive to let him make his own decisions, to feel the pain of not being able to buy a new DVD because a few days before he chose to spend his money on a different one. Is this often painful for me too, if only because of his complaining and often anger? Of course it is, but I have also observed how each instance makes him just a little bit more flexible. I remember years ago attending a Geneva Centre symposium and hearing a presentation by a young woman with ASD: she said something like "We have to hear 'no, it's not time for that' or 'no, it's her birthday'  or 'not right now', so we can learn that these uncomfortable situations aren't permanent." In our house we call this "making D uncomfortable/unhappy" and yes, sometimes there is yelling and door-slamming and misery (occasionally on both sides), but when we get to the other side, it was inevitably worth it.

Devon decorates his tree

(I wrote this in 2008 and a shorter version was published in Autism Ontario’s quarterly magazine. I think it stands the test of time and yes, although he is now much older, the Devon of the story still has his own tree in his room.)

Some time ago, in an uncharacteristic moment of parental competence, we bought two small artificial Christmas trees for the kids – one for Pearce, our late-teen daughter, and one for Devon, our early-teen son, who has an autism spectrum disorder. Our motivation wasn’t to preserve the Martha Stewart-like integrity of the family tree: it was more to distract the kids, particularly our son, in the relentless pre-Christmas season that begins, it seems, shortly after Labour Day.

December 1 is the absolutely earliest date on which the trees can be put up – and despite Devon’s passion for calendars, the count-down can be relentless. Finally the promised day arrives. As the fates would have it, December 1 shows up on a Saturday where my husband is working and Pearce urgently needs homework help. So I get her started on her essay outline, and bring up Devon’s tree and a small box of unbreakable ornaments. I set up the tree in his room upstairs, hand him the box of ornaments, and return to “Lord of the Flies” (the topic of my daughter’s essay).

Maybe five minutes later Devon comes thumping down the stairs – a kid who weighs less than the family dog, whose match-stick limbs are so pale he practically glows in the dark, he still manages to descend and ascend stairs with an impressive thumping. “More decorations” he declares (Devon never uses ten words if two will do). I give him a look, and he reluctantly expands his statement: “I want more decorations”. Leaving my patient daughter to her essay on bloodshed and societal breakdown, I head to the basement again, this time with Devon on my heels. We locate another container of unbreakable ornaments and he heads upstairs to his room with them.

Five minutes later he is back again – this time he doesn’t bother asking but heads straight to the basement. I’m engrossed in the discussion about beast imagery in the classic novel, but not too engrossed to notice what he retrieves – several shiny silver-coloured shower curtain hooks, and a bar of soap. “What are you going to do with that bar of soap?” I ask. “My tree” is the reasonable, if brief, response. “You’re going to put a bar of soap on your tree?” I ask, my voice full of skepticism. He brushes by me and tromps up the stairs again, chanting “bar of soap”, “bar of soap”, “bar of soap” as he goes. Maybe three minutes later he’s down again. “I put the bar of soap behind the tree” he explains, and heads to the basement. The next time he passes us, he’s carrying a feather boa (from a Hallowe’en box, doesn’t everyone have one lying around the house?).

Finally, on yet another trip basement-wise, I intercept him – the basement has lots of stuff in it, and someone who can see the decorating potential of a bar of soap clearly has a mind that is rather too open to possibilities. Plus the tree is very small, far too small for the volume of decorations that have made their way up to his room.  “You could,” I tell him, “take the decorations off and start over.” “Start over?” he asks. “Sure,” I say, “take the decorations off, then put them back on again”. And so he happily heads upstairs again to redecorate the tree. And we try to get back to Lord of the Flies.

Once the essay is under control comes a trip to the dollar store to pick up, you guessed it, more decorations. He picks a star for the top of his tree, assorted garlands, more candy canes, and, in a moment of weakness, I let him buy a package of tinsel. His tree becomes a silver fountain as he tosses the entire package at it (no cats in the house at this time).

The next day his sister is finally in the mood to put her tree up. She kindly allows him into the inner sanctum of her room, a thrilling treat for him. He helps her decorate, handing her the delicate glass decorations she chose last year. He offers one of the candy canes from his tree and is thrilled when she accepts. Finally, her tree is done - a masterpiece of restraint and balance, delicate and lovely, and utterly colour-coordinated. His is a masterpiece of chaos, completely overloaded on one side and bare on the other, with a dozen candy canes bending down a single pathetic artificial branch. Her tree is topped with an angel. His tree is topped with a star. Oops. He wants a “snow angel” like Pearce. It’s late, I’m tired, I tell him we’ll get one later. The next morning the first words out of his mouth are “I want to get a snow angel like Pearce” and, in time, he acquires his own angel to top his tree.

And so each night in December my darling children sleep close to their very own trees. My daughter dreams teenage girl dreams, full of angst and indescribable longings, beside a tree that shimmers with mauve and pink and silver and a tasteful touch of tinsel. My son dreams the dreams of a child whose brain is wired differently, confusion and worry mixed with wonder, beside a tree that would groan, if artificial trees could do such a thing, under the weight of all those ornaments. It comes to me that my daughter’s tree is very selective and deliberate – each ornament chosen specifically, to match some unstated but precise criteria and vision. My son’s tree is all-encompassing – no decoration is rejected as inadequate or inappropriate, all are welcome. I resist the urge to “fix” his tree, to balance it out, to remove the less acceptable items (OK, I confess, I took the bar of soap – we needed it). This is a tree that, likes its decorator, teaches and challenges at the same time, with a strange but fascinating beauty all its own.

"He's beautiful"

"He's beautiful", the stranger said to me. I had already pegged her as a good sort, seeing her kind reaction to the sight of my gangly 21 year old son crouched down to examine the children's DVDs on the bottom shelf at our local Value Village. He was gleefully thrusting "Barbie" DVDs my way, looking for that apparently endlessly entertaining reaction of professed horror they elicit from me. She was not looking askance at him, or me, or moving away uneasily, as people sometimes do. But "beautiful"?

There's no denying that as a child my son was physically beautiful, with masses of platinum curls and sprinkling of freckles on his snub nose, but "beautiful" seems an unlikely adjective for him now that he's fully grown (with jeans that never seem to fit properly, a total indifference to his physical appearance except for the logo on his tshirt, and rather odd facial hair). The woman in the store, however, clearly recognized something about him - and, in fact, as we chatted she told me that she has Asperger's. She talked a bit about the challenges she faces and the supports she receives, and when she again said "he's beautiful" I knew she was acknowledging not just his apparent sweet nature and his enthusiasms that is never diminished by the judgement of others, but the challenges he has faced and the value that should be placed on people like him (and her).

Look left, look right

In the 16 years since my son was diagnosed with ASD, I have spent many hours in informal and informal settings where I have met other parents. No matter the event or the agenda, almost always there’s the opportunity hear a little about someone else’s experience. People have shared the solutions they have sought out, the situations that bring them joy and, more often, the challenges that bring them grief in their life with a child who is, to paraphrase Margaret Drabble (in “The Pure Gold Baby), “the apple of their eye, and the thorn in their heart”.

On every single one of those occasions, at some point I find myself encountering at least one parent whose concerns seem laughingly minor compared to what my family faces. And I have met at least one parent who faces a situation so profoundly difficult that the concerns I had been overwhelmed with suddenly seem trivial. And whichever way I look, whether I’m looking with jealousy or with compassion, I learn something about myself and the way I perceive and support my beloved son.

From the people who seem to have it so easy, I learn to question whether I’m settling too easily, if I’m failing to push my son enough, failing to set expectations highly enough. From the people who seem to be struggling, I receive a gentle reminder about the importance of occasionally celebrating what is good and strong in my life. In either case, I am forced me to re-calibrate my life, at least the large part of it that’s involved with developmental disabilities, in ways both small and large.

So as you attend yet another committee meeting or parent support group or workshop, I urge you to remember to look left, to those you might envy, and to look right, to those you might pity. Listen, and learn, and remember that wherever you are on the spectrum, there’s always someone beside you.  

(A version of this was originally published in an issue of Autism Ontario's Autism Matters magazine.)