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Now, that was a test for my patience. It was not easy for me to talk about Billy’s problems, not even with professional educators or psychologists. It seemed foolish to talk about him just to support the idle curiosity of a fashion-design college administrator. But I wanted to be polite, so I told her a little about Billy – that he had problems with transitions, that he had frequent temper tantrums, that he didn’t talk but constantly made repetitive noises. Most of all, that he was wonderfully lovely and likable but surely a handful.

One evening, after another unsuccessful attempt to urge Billy to let go of the television, I grabbed him, carried him upstairs to his room, went in with him, closed the door and sat blocking the door with my back. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment trying to become aware of my own voice, and started buying time. I had to buy about forty minutes; and every one of them was painful for both of us. As Billy was going through different stages of rage, crying, throwing himself on the floor, trying to push me away from the door, I tried hard to stay calm and kept repeating that I loved him very much, that he is my sweet boy, that he has to go to bed in his room at 8:30, that there was nothing that I could do to change it, and that I was going to sit there as long as it took him to go nicely to bed in his room.

7 A Cross-Country Move In 1997 we decided to move from New York City. Bill and I had reasons of our own; but Billy was a reason too. We had realized that taking care of our boy in winter was much harder than during warm weather. He reacted painfully to cold, to wind, to snow. Going outside was not an appealing option for a good part of the New York winter. Staying inside was a chore as well, with a boy upon whom God had bestowed energy sufficient to destroy the Roman Empire. I wished to be able to keep whatever was left of my sanity.