I almost dread more the time they get left behind—just objects again, not alive like now. The time that inescapable, steady march towards adulthood consumes this bit of childhood’s magic
And then our child is born autistic, and here in front of us is that level of aloneness we have worked our whole lives not to feel. And to love them as deeply as we do, we have to accept our total separation.
I wanted what I’ve never wanted—to be told, moment by moment, what to do next. I wanted the pressure of knowing what’s best to be anyone’s pressure but mine.