The other day I was picking up a book from the library for my husband and saw a shelf of books about autism, and I was puzzled by my reaction. I didn’t want to pick any of them up. I would happily read a book written by, say, my sister who is a psychiatrist who does genetic research and has autistic relatives. Just the last book I picked up got into the “Aspie” thing (that is, using a cute, not necessarily accurate label so we don’t damage self esteem). I guess it bugs me because I used to be there, and have run that course and seen where it lands (a kid who thinks they are more normal than they are, crippled with anxiety). That’s where it landed for us, at any rate. And maybe my aversion to picking up a book was nothing more than knowing I don’t have time to be sitting here blogging right now, because I’m wrapping up a semester and prepping my house for an appraisal.