Sometimes I don’t need long, flowery prose to describe how strong my boy is. This was a picture of him when he was seven. He’d had surgery on both legs, and a mere three days after, he limped along with those bulky casts. Just so he could ride on a train.
I will do my best to ensure nothing and no one ever tames his fire. This passion, this drive?
He has always been a cuddle bug. As a baby, he loved to burrow into the crook of my neck, let out a milky sigh, and nod off to dreamland. He will snuggle in bed, on the couch, and latch on like a sloth if you’re on the move.Continue reading“Hold me tight: #thisisAutism”
Nirav almost always joins us on family hikes. Up and down the windy California coastline or deep inside massive redwood forests. He enjoys the exercise, the outdoors, and our company. Putting one foot in front of the other while the wind sings in his hair, echoing the cadence of his sister’s voice. There is no pressure to participate, so he ambles long, at peace with everything. Even if he doesn’t say a word, we know he’s watching, listening, and living every part. Continue reading“30 laps- #thisisAutism”
April is a special month in the Raman household. We prank each other silly on April fools’ day, and the rest of the month, we do our bit in talking about Autism acceptance. As Nirav grows older, the uncertainty of his future as an adolescent and later an adult looms over us. I worry about societal support for autistic adults, job opportunities, and housing. And I wonder if he will still be accepted when he’s no longer this goofy kid with faint traces of baby fat. The statistics don’t paint a promising picture, so we must move past awareness and talk about acceptance.Continue reading“This is autism.”
Once upon a time, I would inhale, pat my tummy and coyly proclaim, “Oh, I need to lose some weight.” I was 23, with the metabolism of a 16-year-old, and not yet grown any babies. My skin was smooth, my complexion warm and sun-kissed, and I knew of eye creams only in passing.Continue reading“Still got it.”
I read somewhere that it takes three to four generations for a person to be forgotten. Their names lost, their existence erased in its entirety. Memories don’t last forever — even the deepest roots we put down are often pulled out by time. I don’t know who my great-grandparents were or what they looked like. And all I leave behind for my children will be diluted and washed away by my great-grandchildren, who will never know me. That’s just how it works.
This is a promise you made yourself a while back. But the last year has muddied the waters, and you appear to have lost your way. So here’s a reminder (and a loving kick in the butt) to put things in perspective.
After 8 months of the new normal, pandemic fatigue hits hard. I often ask myself – what’s the point? Does it matter if I smile? Does the world stop spinning because I’m too sad to put pen to paper? Do birds stop chirping and oceans screech to a thunderous halt, because I feel hopeless?Continue reading“Sunshine and stars.”