Joe told me that as we drove on Sheridan Road, rounding the corner past Loyola University, where the road meets Devon Avenue.

It was before E-Niner had any type of diagnosis. It was before I wanted to believe that there was anything remotely the matter with my beautiful baby.

The words came out of Joe’s mouth, and I was pissed. “Don’t say that! He doesn’t have special needs!”

“Most kids his age can already [insert lagging developmental milestone now faded from my memory here].”

“So he just needs extra help,” I rationalized.

“Like I said: special needs.”

I sat in the car, arms crossed, in disbelief that my husband — the only person in the world who made “our” son plural with me — could say something so, so not true.

It was about a year before I swallowed the special needs pill.

During the course of that year, I stole glances at the Special Needs section of the bookstore. It was as if that section were a bookstore strip joint, and I would catch cooties from it just from looking.

In the same way that a strip joint does tempt curiosity, though, I would find myself quickly glancing at titles. Something about dyslexia here, what to do if your kid can’t talk there.

My son was not “special needs.” (This was before I learned that referring to someone as their label is more than not politically correct, it ignored their humanity entirely.) I surmised he could probably read just fine one day. And can we say motor mouth? These were not my problems.

Fast forward a few months to his sensory processing disorder diagnosis. Looking to find out more about the condition, I headed back to the bookstore — to that dreaded Special Needs section. And there they were. Books upon books upon books about sensory processing disorder. It’s been my section ever since.

I check back every now and again to see if there’s any information I could possibly be missing, that I haven’t yet ferociously uncovered in my undying quest for Answers.

It’s a puny section, Special Needs. For how many people out there are raising kids with them, it seems like it should at least take up half a row. Not at my bookstore. It’s area is about three feet wide. That’s it.

As I looked at the titles today — carefully reading every one, since there weren’t too many to peruse — I’d guesstimate that fifty percent of the titles were devoted to autism spectrum issues, a quarter on ADHD, a handful on bipolar and anxiety, and the rest were personal accounts of what it is like living with or parenting someone with special needs.

But where was the book on childhood psychosis? That’s what I was looking for. Not there. And then I realized my frustration.

E-Niner’s got special needs in spades — the more popular ones like SPD, ADHD and, some professionals believe, PDD-NOS — but he’s also got this rare condition that puts him in a class beyond the norm. Psychotic episodes. They don’t have special needs books on that in my bookstore. And in all of my research and connecting with other people, I haven’t found another peer who has it.

I know plenty of kids with PDD-NOS, ADHD, SPD, anxiety — all issues that E-Niner has. But I haven’t met one child with psychosis. In my hungry search last year, I went straight to the National Institutes of Mental Health. They were flabbergasted that I would even speak of such a thing about a four year old. They didn’t know of anyone either. They also suggested I get second opinions.

But time has run its course. And we have had second opinions and thirds, and a neuropsych evaluation to boot. I just want to find out more about this condition. Though, I’m not sure what more it is I need to know. I’ve lived with it — lived through it with him — every day. It sucks.

So here’s my plea. If you know of anybody out there — any child out there — who has psychosis, can you send their parents my way? I’d love to trade notes sometime. If only to feel less isolated.

It’s not often that I feel absolutely awesome about E-Niner. It’s not often I feel like the world is his oyster, so I’m going to let every last little bit of my pride for him today creep deep within my bones and let it marinate…and then let it explode!

He did his first round of IEP tests today — an academic exam — and he rocked it.

Even though he was initially scared and wanted to hide behind me, he was able to use his words and tell the psychologist that he was feeling shy. She told him she could understand why, but not to worry. They were going to have fun!

She administered the whole test in one sitting.

Let’s clarify. For E-Niner “sitting” means fidgeting, jumping, falling on the floor, going under the table a few times, kneeling every now and then, sitting with his chair pushed as far back as possible, laying his head on the table and letting some drool hang out (just a bit, until he realized it, sat up and wiped his face), interrupting the test to ask her why her hair is straight or why the sky has clouds. But he did it!!!!!!!!!!! The whole test! YES.

And — I just picked up an e-mail from the psychologist who said, and I quote:

“He did a really great job with me!  I was really impressed with his knowledge base.”

You know what? I am going to “read into” every last word of what she wrote, because damn it, it’s not often I get encouraging news about E-Niner.

She said she was impressed! Impressed! See? He is impressive. He can be impressive. There is a whole nugget of beautiful wonderful behind all his other garbage.

I’m impressed too, because frankly, I haven’t taught him a lick of anything. I haven’t taught him his letters or numbers or how to count. Nothing. I spend all my time teaching him how to act appropriately in social and emotional situations.

So with absolutely no education at all, my boy still tests at an impressive level for his age. Could you imagine how he would do if he actually were able to study and learn?

I am so proud of him. So proud.