The popsicle stick-thin figure in rumpled pajamas who is my 16-year-old son stands in the darkened corridor in a fighter’s stance, small white hands clenched into fists. His face, lit by a shaft of light from the laundry room, is contorted with rage at being roused from his slumber—probably by me shutting the dryer door.

Casey’s eyes dart from the lit laundry room to the clothes in my arms; then to the crack of light under his brother’s bedroom door.

This could go any direction, including ones I cannot imagine, so I float a storyline: “I’m going downstairs with these clean clothes; time to go back to bed.”

“Mom? Who are you talking to?” comes from behind my oldest son’s door.

I dart a warning glance at Casey, whose free-floating anxiety wicks towards the sound of his brother’s voice. He erupts, “Shut-up! I’m trying to sleep!”

“You shut-up. You’re the one who’s yelling,” comes big brother’s voice.

“Honey, you’re half asleep; go back to bed.” A light touch Casey’s shoulder. Mistake. A tiny fist flies—I duck; a torrent of abuse follows.

“Just shut-up!” yells older brother wrenching open his bedroom door. Then, “Mah-ahm, you don’t ever punish him; he thinks he can get away with this.”

Casey tries to scramble past me, “Fucker! I’ll kill you!” I seize a second jab in mid-air, gently guiding the wrist to Casey’s side as I hold him firmly by the elastic of his P.J. pants.

“It’s late,” I soothe, drawing closed my older son’s bedroom door. “Let’s get you a cup of warm milk.”

But there will be no soothing tonight. The door to Casey’s room slams, and for emphasis, opens and slams harder. I count with eyes closed. Finally, his bed creaks.

I pivot, open the bedroom door of my eldest son who is sprawling on his bed wearing drawstring shorts and Borat T-shirt. His laptop is open to what I hope is homework. He glances at me from under brows stitched together with almost two decades of frustration; a look too jaded for his 18 years.

My heart constricts—again. “This is autism,” I whisper. “Please. Punishing isn’t the answer.” No response. Then, “I know what I’m talking about.”

And, finally, I really do.

Autism can be a labyrinth of unspeakable horrors, where one comes face-to-face with the worst possible traits of humanity—indifference, cruelty, greed, discrimination, hopelessness and resignation. Autism is where marriages and parenting partnerships come to die on the rocks of exhaustion, despair and blind self-interest. Autism wears down families, severs familial bonds with sharp and bitter recriminations, blame and guilt. Institutions designed to help don’t. Safety nets fail, their frail ropes of good intentions frayed by bureaucratic apathy and over-extended, un-kept promises. Men often leave, unable to fix or to sustain that which sprung unexpectedly from their own loins. Mothers give all or give nothing; either way they are reviled by those outside the dark bubble which the family calls home but feels like anything but.

Autism makes no sense; there are no navigational tools or comfortable rest stops along the path families must traverse on their way towards the inevitable—when they must blindly entrust their disabled loved ones to the care of others when they themselves are spent, the marrow of their bones turned to dust, and all their loving ministrations poured out onto the dry sand of life’s injustice. In the final analysis, the only real measure of the energy expended is the significant shortening of the mother’s lifespan and the distance the other family members put between themselves and the pain that just won’t go away.

So it was for Kristen LaBrie, 38, a single, unemployed mother of a non-verbal, severely autistic and cognitively delayed son, Jeremy, who suffered from a relapse of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma when he was seven. The mother and her son, who had survived an earlier bout of cancer therapy, made it together through four of the five phases of the second go-round of chemo before Kristen stopped administering the medicine because she felt it was making Jeremy sicker.

In Kansas City last month, Kristen was paraded through the halls of justice in handcuffs (“let that be a warning to all you bad mommies out there”), after being sentenced eight to ten years for attempted murder of her son Jeremy. The prosecution painted Kristen as an embittered woman who let her son die to get back at the world, and especially Jeremy’s father who left the destitute mother and son to fend for themselves when Jeremy was three.

In court documents, Kristen’s crime was failure to give her son life-saving medicine that an oncologist claims could have given Jeremy as much as a 90 percent chance to survive at least another five years. The thinking is that if Kristen had been a good mommy, she would have followed a complex two-year protocol that included hospital stays, regular visits to a hospital clinic to receive chemotherapy and at-home administration of several cancer medications. Never mind that the medical protocol did not include systematic support for Kristen, her son’s only caregiver for most of his life, and herself suffering from clinical depression.

Jurors justified their harsh verdict—guilty of attempted murder, guilty of child endangerment; guilty of assault and battery; guilty, guilty—by citing the devotion of motherhood in lofty tones. Editorial writers and pundits weighed in with headlines such as “Life Unfair, but Mother Dead Wrong”. Anyone with a toe in the vast sea of commerce that world of autism has become proffered themselves to the media as autism experts, hoping to use the tragedy of Kristen and Jeremy to sell their books, programs or gain market share points with a population that increases annually by more than 40,000 souls in the United States alone.

Our son Casey is one of the lucky ones, born into a comparatively stable family that is able to get him the services and enrichment he needs to thrive and grow. Sure, our Thanksgivings feel more like Picasso’s Guernica than Norman Rockwell’s Freedom from Need, but, as I put away the laundry that started the confrontation in the darkened hallway, I wonder how many children with autism will be born as Jeremy was, to unsteady circumstances and single mothers struggling to survive?

Tonight, as the mercury hovers above 50 degrees; outside the open windows the peeper frogs celebrate spring in vernal pools, their high-pitched squeals sing in new beginnings.

Tomorrow, Casey will process his midnight meltdown; he will be full of remorse, doling out hugs and asking forgiveness. He will see the world with new eyes and help those who support him have some measure of satisfaction that they had something to do with his turnaround.

But for other mothers and fathers, there are no reconciliations—only more suffering lies ahead. Who among us would willingly exchange places with them?

Autism by itself is a burden almost impossible to bear. Autism, poverty and a lingering, prolonged cancer treatment that causes both emotional and physical pain make for an exercise in despair so profound that our legal system cannot address this tragedy. Kristen should go free; her life so far has been punishment enough.

We’re please to introduce our first guest blogger: co-founder of Plastic Pollution Coalition and contributor to the Huffington Post, Lisa Kaas Boyle describes herself as an environmental attorney, mother and life-long learner. Welcome Lisa!

I was one of those people who always dreamed of having children, even when I was a child myself. Naturally, I had a lot of expectations about being a parent. Many of these expectations turned out to be false — like the idea that having a child would be like having a part of me break off and develop into another me. I quickly learned that, apart from some obvious genetic similarities, my kids came to me as strangers I had to get to know. The next big surprise, and this was even more shocking to me, was that my kids would be teaching ME things.

My son Jake, who turned 13 this month, has been one of my greatest teachers. He taught me a profound lesson when he was not yet two. I had recently quit working outside the home to be a “stay-at-home mom.”

I took Jake to a “mommy and me” program at a preschool. Jake really enjoyed it, and we were walking back to the car about a block away. I had the whole rest of the day planned out to the minute, a habit I had acquired as a Deputy District Attorney and a working mom. The next stop I had planned was the library. On the way to the car we came upon a puddle. This was apparently the most interesting thing Jake had seen all day. He wanted to stare at his reflection; he wanted to poke the puddle with a stick; he wanted to stamp on it and make splashes. He did NOT want to get in the car to go anywhere, including the library. I begged with him and pleaded. I even tried some bribery. I felt that if I didn’t manage to get Jake into that car and to the library, I would lose control of the whole day and my child. I was obviously a failure as a new stay-at-home mom.

But Jake was mesmerized by the puddle and nothing could pull him from it. Eventually, I sat down on the sidewalk next to him and watched him play. After a while, I too had a few splashes in the puddle, much to Jake’s delight. Wow. We were having fun! Despite the fact that I had planned to have fun elsewhere, we found the fun on the sidewalk, on the way to the car. I can’t tell you how long we had fun there, but it was a long time. And during that time, I learned my first great life lesson from Jake. Be flexible enough to change plans when you find fun along the way. And sometimes, the most unexpected event can be the most fun of all.

When Jake was older, probably about eight, he told me he knew the meaning of life. With great assurance, he said, “The meaning of life is to have FUN.” I thought about that for a while before I realized he was absolutely correct. The world is full of wonderful gifts: nature, family, intellectual challenges, new people and adventures, and it seems downright unappreciative not to really enjoy these blessings. Yes, we work hard to accomplish goals and to preserve what is good for others to enjoy in the future, but what good is all this work if we don’t enjoy ourselves? What are we saying to the next generation if we pass on a world without JOY in our hearts?

I have to be honest to tell you that Jake and I still battle over timetables — my insistence that it is time to do homework or clean up the pile of clothes on the floor vs. Jake’s insistence that it is time for any one of his many interests. This is OK, because it all gets done.

Has Jake learned anything from his parents? Samuel Clemmons, otherwise known as Mark Twain once said,

“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

I expect Jake will appreciate some of our wisdom around the age of 21 — that’s about when I realized what I had learned from my parents!

As my son begins his teenage years, he will be defining himself as a man. I have no idea where this journey will take him, but I look forward to sharing his discoveries with him. I thank my son for teaching me to be present in the moment, to experience real joy wherever I find it and to value fun. I have a feeling that that my son will continue teaching valuable lessons to me, and many others, throughout his life.

Cathy ponders the question, “What did you wish you had been told when you were 12 years old?”

Lovely Lily, my best friend Leslie’s daughter, turns 12 and becomes a Bat Mitzvah this weekend. The Bat Mitzvah (Bar Mitzvah for boys) is a Jewish rite of passage. The classic joke goes something like this: A Bar Mitzvah boy stands at the podium having just recited a passage from the Torah, he begins his speech, “Today I’m a man. Tomorrow I go back to the 8th grade.”

To paraphrase the description from Temple Bet Alef:
The Bar and Bat Mitzvah represents a coming of age for a Jewish young person. On a physical level, it represents the age when young bodies become capable of reproduction and young people need to become responsible in a fuller way for their behavior in the world. On a mental and emotional level, it reflects entering the transition period between childhood and adulthood. On a spiritual level, the young person begins to reflect on the Torah’s teachings in regards to their own identity and journey.

To celebrate Lily’s milestone, I have been invited to partake in a tradition new to me, but grounded in ancient ritual—the “Women’s Circle”. Comprised of Lily’s mother’s friends and relatives, the discussion zeros in on this one question:

“What did you wish you had been told when you were 12 years old?”

The adults talk to one another, and the student is invited to listen and ask questions. A candle burns throughout the ceremony, symbolizing the Light of Awareness, the Light of Life. At the conclusion, everyone hugs the Bat Mitzvah girl, gives an enthusiastic “Mazel Tov” and it’s time for a snack! (But, of course… what’s a Jewish occasion without food?)

This beautiful idea, the women’s circle, has me thinking: What do I wish I had been told back then, when hormones were starting to percolate and Barbie dolls were making way for making out? To get in the mood, I thought back to the 6th grade. Someone wise once said, everything you need to know you learned in kindergarten, well, I added a few years (circa 1968) and here’s what I recall.

When I was 12, I knew…

That playing, reading, dancing, singing and loving The Monkees (especially Davey Jones) was more joyful than just about anything else.

That kissing a boy was fun and going steady was exciting, but not that much fun.

That stealing was wrong, but slipping quarters out of mom’s purse wasn’t quite as wrong. (Penny candy on me!)

That the day I got my braces, I would stop sucking my thumb.

That rushing to grow up was truly a waste of time.

And this I knew for sure…that 12-years-old was…old!

What did I wish I had been told when I was 12 years old? What might I tell Lily?

That love is the most important thing of all.

That putting yourself in someone’s shoes means compassion, and kindness and compassion are priceless.

That girls and women need to stand up and be smart, loud and proud!

That magazines and advertisements use airbrushing; no one’s body is perfect.

That listening to your inner voice will become easier over time.

That you’ll be thankful if you wash your face daily, use sunscreen and stay active.

That life can be difficult, but we make it through.

I clearly remember being told by an elderly neighbor, sitting on her front porch, “Smile when you say hello.” That simple bit of advice has served me well, and philosophers like Thich Nhat Hanh agree. Hopefully Lily will be smiling as we share our woman’s “wisdom” with her.

I ask you, dear reader, to choose a line from my list above or answer the question in your own words:

What would you tell your 12-year-old self?