Even though I miss my boys during the summer, I enjoy being by myself so much. I savor the quiet. I enjoy being free to spend my time at what I choose, but especially, I enjoy not having to talk. And that’s kind of the stereotypical hallmark of autism, isn’t it? Not talking? Of course, there’s a world of difference between not wanting to and not being able to. But stay with me . . .

My mother said that when I was a baby I would get on my hands and knees and bang my head into the headboard of my crib in a rhythmic, repetitive way. And I rocked. As a child I rocked myself on couches if there were no rocking chairs available. To this day I love to rock, I love the soothing element of the motion. Isn’t that a form of stimming? Rocking and banging my head repetitively?

Apparently I was also resistant to touch, to contact. I am told that I didn’t like to be held. Where have we heard this before?

This is why I believe that some people are genetically predisposed to autism. Even though I was not autistic (I talked very early and exhibited a high level of social awareness), I can see some faint characteristics in my infant and childhood self. The writing was on the wall. All it took was the combined genes of someone else who had been a bit like me, a dose of terbutaline in utero, and a whopping bombardment of thimerosol within the first few months of life and  . . . voila! Autism.