I remember the first time I noticed that Matthew was different.

We were living in San Mateo, an upscale community 20 miles south of San Francisco, in a sunny apartment that would be the first home to our beautiful firstborn son. He was about a year old and we were at Gymboree, a program where stir-crazy new mothers could connect while their babies got to tumble and play. The class was held in the basement of a neighborhood Methodist church that smelled of applesauce cake and burnt coffee. I proudly carried Matthew into the class for the first session. I loved the way he sat on my hip, his arm hooked around mine, and how his legs and arms clung to me tighter when I leaned down to put him on the red mat with the other babies. Matthew wore a preppy Lacoste shirt with a blue collar.  He was the cutest baby there.

“You think you’ve got problems now,” said my friend Cathy, whose son was also autistic. “Just wait until he goes though puberty!” Cathy’s son was now 15. “Let me tell you, it’s not pretty.”
“Matthew is just eleven now,” I said, ” and so far I haven’t had any problems.”
“Eleven! That’s when it hits!” she chuckled.
I just didn’t want to hear it. I had decided long ago not to be concerned with issues I didn’t have to deal with in the present. I had so much to worry about as it was.
“I think Matthew is going to be a late bloomer,” I said, “He’s still a little boy. Besides, I heard that sometimes people with autism actually calm down during adolescence.”
Cathy laughed out loud. “You are so funny!” she said. “Thank God for your sense of humor. It’s the only thing that will get you through.”
I laughed lamely in return.
Maybe I just dreamed that puberty calms them down.