Raising a child with autism comes with a lot of crap. I’m not talking about the stares from strangers, the battles with insurance companies and school boards, or even the underlying, ever-present stress of wondering what my son’s future will look like. That’s all part of it, of course. But the crap I speak of today is of the tangible, dust-collecting variety.

What can I say? Autism takes up a lot of freaking space. There are the binders of therapist-recorded data, the pendaflex folders filled with evaluations and invoices, and, of course, the endless piles of teaching materials.

From the huge dry erase board on which we draw Benjamin’s daily schedule, to the card next to the bathroom sink featuring a pictorial breakdown of the act of hand washing (water on, wash hands, water off, dry), to the playroom closet stuffed with toys and games and visuals his therapist uses during sessions, our house is pretty much blanketed with tools that help Benjamin learn to communicate, follow routines, and transition more easily.

Benjamin, 8, was diagnosed 6 years ago, so by now these items have become a natural part of the landscape of our home—a part I rarely think about them. That is, until Passover rolls around.

I’m one of the crazies who does a whole top-to-bottom cleaning thing before the holiday, so every spring I’m forced me to confront (and organize, weed out, and de-grime) the sheer amount of stuff.

The process is always cathartic, and often emotional, too. This year the thing that really got me was the bin filled with stories and other visual tools we’ve used to get Benjamin through rough times. Maybe it’s because they were all made by his old therapists, who I’ve missed so much since moving out of New York last summer, or maybe it’s because the materials are full of cute photos of Benjamin, but I was pretty choked up. This wasn’t just a dusty pile of laminated print outs, this was a history of my son and his development. Here, a few highlights.

* Benjamin’s Exercise Book, age 4: Atara, Benjamin’s old occupational therapist put this together so we could practice the yoga poses she was working on with him at school. I was floored when I first saw it—not only because she figured out that yoga could give him the sensory input he needed to stay calm and focused, but because he could actually do it. There was my kid, who couldn’t follow a simple command like “throw it in the trash” or “say hi to Daddy,” doing downward dog.

* A Trip to the Barber Shop, age 4: To say that Benjamin was terrified of getting a haircut is a gross understatement. Atara practiced the routine with him (sitting in the chair, wearing the cape, getting his hair sprayed and finally snipped) a bunch of times and when he got really good she made this book so we could read it together before future visits to his stylist.

* This Week We Are Going on a Trip, age 5: Watching Benjamin learn to ski was mind blowing. I’d forgotten how we used to have to duct tape his gloves to his jacket so he wouldn’t pull them off until I saw this book his teachers made to prep him for an upcoming trip.

* Yeah! It’s Time for Passover!, age 6: Benjamin has a hard time with change, and things really change over Passover. Megan, Benjamin’s former speech therapist, made us this book to help Benjamin get mentally prepared for a trip to Safta’s house, and for the sudden absence of his favorite foods. This is one I’m going to edit and use again this year.

* Calendar, age 7: Even though I talked about our move often with Benjamin before it happened, I wasn’t entirely sure how much he understood. To help him process the information, Megan made this calendar, which laid out when everything was happening. Interestingly, every time we tried to go over it with him he became super anxious, showing us that he likely understood way more than we gave him credit for.

After lots of kvelling and a few tears, the stuff is all organized, free of stray Cheerios, and packed away in the playroom closet until next year, when I’m sure there will be lots more to go through.

I was recently dumped. It’s the first time in years I’ve gone through a breakup, but it turns out I’m handling it exactly the same way I would have back in the day.

Namely, I’ve been driving around, blasting melodramatic music (now its Adele instead of Tiffany or Joe Jackson or the Smiths or whoever made me weepy at the time, but same difference), rehashing the details in an effort to figure out what wrong, and web stalking the other woman. Yep, there was another woman. And, according to Facebook, she is cute and blonde. Bitch.

There’s just one difference between my heartbreaks of long ago and this current one: I’m not mourning a guy at the moment. I’m mourning my nanny. 

This isn’t so much about my relationship with N., of course. We got along pretty well (I thought so anyway). What I can’t believe is that she could just walk out onAyla, my 22-month-old. The two of them had a special connection, and even now I believe it was the real thing.

Ayla’s picture was the screensaver on N.’s phone. Neighbors would text me from the playground to tell me they’d just seen her singing to or playing a silly game with Ayla, and that Ayla seemed to be having a blast. Some days Ayla cried when N. left for the day.

Listen, I know that ultimately it was just her job, and I didn’t expect her to stick around forever. But I was still very upset when she just didn’t show up for work one day.

I was even more upset when I finally reached her. She apologized profusely—she’d been in a biking accident and the friend she’d asked to tell me the news must have dropped the ball. Her leg was broken and she’d be out for between four and six weeks. I felt awful for her.

Shortly after that my upsetness peaked. Someone called to inform me that N. was not in fact healing at her aunt’s place in Tampa. Nor was she back home in Peru—where she’d said she was considering returning to once she got better. Turns out N. was maybe a mile away, working for another family in our sizable yet tight-knit suburban Jewish community.

It was then that I was flung back into spurned girlfriend mode. How could I have trusted someone who could tell that kind of lie? Was this somehow my fault? What would I say if I ran into her in the neighborhood? These are the questions I ask myself as I turn down assignments and cut Ayla’s naps short so we can make it to her brothers’ schools on time for pick up.

Luckily, this kind of rejection has been way easier to recover from than the romantic kind. Yes, I’m hurt and disappointed, but getting stuck on it just isn’t an option. My life can’t run if I don’t move on. So slowly, via setups and the Internet, I’m starting to meet other people. Hopefully I’ll have better luck this time.