I put my hands on the kitchen table and looked into the eyes of the early education specialist.

"I want to know if he's autistic," I said flatly.

Meaning, of course, "I want official confirmation that he's NOT autistic."

As they say, be careful what you ask for. After a series of tests, the professionals pronounced that my late -talking toddler who didn't always meet your eye was "on the autism spectrum."

I went into immediate denial. My standard line when telling people about the diagnosis was, "They say he's on the autism spectrum, but I think they're wrong."

Not that I thought the Bellevue Public School educators were malicious or ignorant.

On the contrary: They were noble and well-intentioned. They wanted to get my 2-year-old son Tom into an early intervention program -- a program he clearly needed -- and had to diagnose him on the spectrum to qualify him for it.

Sure, he didn't talk.

Sure, he tended to ignore others and play by himself.

Sure, he showed no recognition of himself in the mirror .

And yes, he shied away from eye contact, which even I knew was a big red flag.

But I knew he wasn't autistic, even if a team of five professionals were telling me he was.

At least, I knew it then.

Now, it's been almost a year since Tom entered the program. In some ways, he's made huge strides. His language skills have increased well beyond expectations, although his social skills have developed more slowly. His teachers are hopeful that by the time he's of kindergarten age, he will be able to go right into the classroom, no more special education required.

And my terror of that word, "autism," has slowly faded, to the point where I no longer really care if he has it or not. (Which is still, you'll notice, not the same as accepting that he's autistic.)

In part, my attitude is a reaction to the fact that, with the help of the fine educators at Bellevue's Fairview Elementary School, he is mastering new abilities constantly, sometimes in quite unexpected ways.

Last month, for example, Tom was riding in the backseat of the car with his sister when he turned to her, out of the blue, and said, "Rosie, I 'm going to kick your butt."

Sure, not the most fraternal of sentiments. But a year ago, the idea that Tom would turn to his sister, look her in the eye, and call her by name to start off a seven -word, perfectly clear sentence was unthinkable.

"Rosie, I love your hair!" would have been preferable. But you take what you can get.

At night, when I put him to bed, I still have to say, "I love you, Tom," before he'll answer, "I love you, Dad." But he does answer.

And for that, I credit the early intervention, and in a strange way, my determined denial.

Prove he's not autistic, I demanded. Their response: He is.

But the result -- thanks largely to the early intervention program and his dedicated educational team -- has been a blessing. My son loves me. He can tell me so.

Now, if we can only figure out why he wants to kick his sister's butt.

John Keenan is married with three children. He works full-time as a reporter at the World-Herald.