Amy Spurway I am many things. I’ve got lots of labels. Mother. Writer. Wife. Gen Xer. Self-obsessed panic-prone neurotic with duck feet. But today, the one that is bouncing around my brain like a four-year old with a face full of neon blue icing from a Little Mermaid birthday cake is “Mother of a Child With Autism.” Maybe it’s because April is Autism Awareness month. Of which I am all too aware, thank you very much. Or maybe it’s because I spent the better part of last evening at a mom-blogger workshop talking to another woman with an autistic kid. Or maybe it’s because I spent 20 minutes this morning standing in the school hallway with my daughter Roo’s kindergarten teacher and Special Needs Assistant, discussing her refusal to follow instructions, and her “violent outburst.” Or maybe it’s because it’s just my reality, my most significant label. I am the…