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By Mary Mohler
Before heading out grocery shopping, Niccole and Tim Pitz take a few moments to talk with their son Riley, 8, and go over what they expect from him. No grabbing, knocking things over, or running. If he's good, Niccole promises, they'll take him to see one of his favorite things -- the yellow buses parked near his school. "Yay! Let's go!" says Riley. He calls out to Lady, their golden retriever, and helps put a vest on the service dog, telling her, "Better hurry!" In the parking lot of the store, Niccole attaches an adjustable belt Riley is wearing to a loop on Lady's vest. The shopping goes well, but as Niccole grabs a few last items from the dairy case, Riley spots the toy aisle and tries to bolt. Lady holds her ground, preventing Riley from dashing away. Trying to preempt a meltdown, Niccole reminds him of the reward that awaits if he follows the rules. He does. After leaving the store they drive by the school, and Riley greets each vehicle ("Hi, bus!"), grinning from ear to ear.
For the Pitzes, who live in rural Colfax, California, there's no such thing as a carefree outing with Riley. Like many children with autism, he is hypersensitive to his surroundings and demands routine; anything unpredictable -- from driving a different route to not having the snack he's accustomed to -- can send him into a tantrum of screaming and kicking. As a result, ordinary activities like going to a restaurant or the movies are impossible. The sacrifices have been hard on Niccole, 35, a former legal secretary, Tim, 38, a road maintenance worker, and their 15-year-old son, Brendan. "I still grieve over the loss of the boy Riley could have been," says Niccole. "All we can do is work together to make each day better."
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