Yesterday was Father’s Day. Let me confess: I had no idea such a day existed. I didn’t check LinkedIn till night. Then someone mentioned it, and of course I had to Google it—the third Sunday of
Let me tell you a mother’s story. Illiterate, underprivileged—and with such phenomenal grit and love that I am dumbfounded. Before the redoubtable Manjamma began working for me, I was looking for someone reliable and clean to
“When do you start financial planning for your autistic child?” Yesterday. Because it is never too early to start. The earlier you begin, the more time you give yourself to create wealth, invest wisely, and plan
“Krishna, what do birds eat?” “Pija!” replied 2-year-old Krishna, who was eating pizza at the time. “You’re eating pizza, baby, and you’re not a bird. What’s your name?” “Santalagopalakisha!” he promptly giggled. (Krishna’s “traditional” name is
“”After us, then what?” This question popped up in my mind for the nth time yesterday morning, just about this time. I was frantically cleaning the sofa while Krishna’s father struggled to hold a cross, protesting
“Let me tell you a story of courage. A story of love.” Yesterday, I was waiting for Krishna to finish his therapy. A blue electric auto purred to a stop next to me, and another mother
“So, what’s for breakfast?” For me, this is the scariest question possible on a Monday morning. Especially when my delightful maid decides to take off for a few days without letting me know. Krishna is an
Autism parenting seems a lonely journey. Autism seems a lonely journey. It needn’t be. Krishna’s first regression happened when he was about 4. “That’s not typical,” the doctors told me. “Are you sure you noticed nothing
“Krishna, big, black eye!” And Krishna burst into peals of laughter. My cheek was against his and I peered into his eye. His comically huge, shiny, black side eye. My eye must have looked even more
“I’ve seen many autistic children, but none like Krishna! Please admit him for 2 weeks in a psychiatric hospital.” When Krishna’s neurologist said this, she saw him at the peak of his pain. He was thrashing
Does love need a spoken language? The gaze holding yours with such power that your soul is laid bare… The scent of that little head, sweet despite hair tangled with food, mud, and other strange objects
Let me tell you a story about parenting guilt. “Krishna, say bye to me. I’m going to the hospital. I’ll be back by evening.” Krishna was hiding under his comforter. He twitched a little foot, acknowledging