“He’s clearly A-Typical in many ways.  Just not in the ways we are used to.” We’ve been hearing the same line for 3 years. “There’s something up, but it doesn’t quite fit.” “We want to offer a diagnosis, but there’s too much he doesn’t do and too much he does.” “We know it’s frustrating, but he just doesn’t check all the right boxes.” Right now, my house looks a little like my heart. Disheveled and a little grimy, the floor has a new throw rug of dog hair and if I’m starting to feel like the hygienic answer to using my bathroom at the moment would be to put down toilet paper over the seat before I sit down.  Balancing work with my kids, especially when Dh is away, is a little precarious on the best day, but this week we are in the middle of long awaited psychologist assessments with my youngest and I’ve reached the point where the mental energy required is starting to effect my physical ability to not fall asleep in the 10 minutes between kids home time, dinner and out the door for Jiu Jitsu. Naively, I was hoping for answers. It seems like lately the number of people on my social media and daily life outside the Internet who have identified their child as Autistic is growing constantly. And in what is possibly the most terribly short sighted and evil admission I will ever speak on my own parenting, I’m almost jealous of them. Because we talk about Autism. We don’t talk about unusual, undiagnosed A-Typical behavior. Monster…