I’m no expert. After all, I’ve yet to have one holiday with autism as my friend except for Siblings Day and we all know that is a bunch of malarkey even if it does get my goat emotionally. No, Easter is my first rodeo and it’s not officially until tomorrow, though today was the egg hunt. What’s more traditional and all-American than hunting for plastic eggs filled with jelly beans and malted milk balls? Not much, I’m thinking. We’ve done this particular hunt for several years now in Key Biscayne, our spot for Easter, so it has become a tradition.

Truthfully, perspective ruled the day today and I found it to be quite useful. I tried to keep my thoughts light and my heart open. I didn’t cry or even get teary. I did allow myself an extra Bloody Mary (that made three), but it is vacation. Amos had his own bucket but the concept of collecting eggs was unlikely. He did pick up a few and open them and seemed to like playing with them, but other than that, his autism was a big part of the morning. I guess it always has, I just didn’t know it. As I get used to this diagnosis, I’m getting more comfortable with the nuances.

The other kids lined up and Amos perched happily on a friend’s golf cart. He found some hard boiled eggs to throw and then peel and sample before discarding them haphazardly in the grass. He stood at the drink station and had a ball manipulating tiny umbrellas and cherry tomatoes. He found some bubbles in an egg and brought them to me and then we sat, quite a while, and he dug in the black soil, still wet from last night’s downpour, and smeared the thick muck on my leg. A little dirt never hurt anybody after all.