We attended a family get-together this weekend at Grandma’s house. I often get a bit nervous before these things, because I’m never sure how people are going to react to our son, H., who has autism. There were going to be quite a few extended family members there, and as I packed the car for the journey across town, I thought (with a touch of melodrama), “How much do they know?”

To-tell-or-not-to-tell is a subject with which any parent of a child with autism is familiar. Three years ago, when we first got the diagnosis, this was a big issue for us. H. could still “pass” for a typical kid, most of the time, and telling people about his disability was an option – not a necessity. But now he’s nearly six, and the quirkiness has only increased: in a crowd, H. stands out. He flaps his hands, he squeals, he is obsessed with string, ribbon, and shoelaces, and can often be found waving one of the aforementioned objects (rather gracefully) in the air. His spoken language skills are approximately that of a two-year old. He doesn’t “pass” anymore; there is obviously something different about him.

Often I’ll simply say, “He has autism.” This has elicited many different responses, from “Is it the audible kind?” (I’m still pondering that one) to, most often, “Is it Aspergers?” People seem more familiar with Aspergers, and are fascinated by it and by “savant” skills (like “Rainman” and his math calculations). Nope — H. has the old-fashioned, plain ol’ vanilla kind of autism.

So, Saturday: extended family, people we rarely see, people who might not know about H., an environment (crowded, loud) in which H. is more likely to need “string time.” As we neared Grandma’s place my anxiety level ticked up a notch.

As it turns out, my anxiety was for naught. The Internet may be a great communication tool, but nothing beats the GrannyNet for spreading the word. Everyone was informed; everyone seemed comfortable and at ease; and no one batted an eye when H. made a beeline for Grandma’s blue afghan with its irresistible fringe and played with it the entire time (except when he was being fed frosting by well-meaning relatives). Little sister F. enjoyed being the only baby in attendance; at one point there was a crowd of people around her, laughing at her antics and showering her with praise. And H. was – I am grateful to say – treated like a regular kid, like the lovable boy he is, like one of the family.