Witty Bean

That morning was just like any other. She looked at her clock and chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. Less than 10 minutes and she still had so much to do. This was supposed to be her big day. The day she’d been dreaming about since she was a little girl in pigtails and flouncy skirts. Joy and fear both battled for her attention. Ok. Stop. Breathe. Breeeaaathe…. In and out. In and out. Feeling a tad better, she proceeded to adjust her jewelry. The beautiful diamond encrusted piece glittered on her forehead. Gold bangles adorned her hands, from mid-forearm to wrist. Her wedding saree was this stunning explosion of fuchsia and purple intertwined with delicate golden tendrils of silk. Dev had picked it out for her. Her darling Dev. Handsome and tall, his dark eyes flashing with barely restrained passion. She was still amazed that he’d asked her to marry him. She’d wept and answered Yes! Yes of course! Her eyes teared up at the memory and for a split second, she teetered between the pas

I loved running as a little girl.Till I was almost 12; I was one of the faster kids in my school. Possibly even the fastest. I ran during recess; I ran in the hallways (can you tell my teachers hated me?), I ran when I was late to class and sometimes I ran even when I had absolutely no reason to. I had no formal training, no fancy running shoes and certainly no coherent plan to turn this passion into something more serious and streamlined. I ran, simply for the love of it and the purity of that purpose was something that kept me going, rain or shine. It was something I could do, all by myself and for myself, and if you know tween girls, you know how important that first bloom of independence is. When I got to my teen years, I gradually stopped running. Schoolwork, puberty and mood swings were far bigger masters of my time and soon I started contriving excuses to not run. I hated myself for a bit, ashamed and scared that I suddenly lacked the desire to do something that was once so imp

Some days, acceptance is hard. So horribly hard. Not just autism acceptance. But just acceptance of everything that has been put on your plate. You know all the hope-filled mantras you chant to yourself. And you know how strong your faith is — both in your children and in yourself. But some days, when life hands you those damn lemons, you just want to fling them back in Life’s stupid face. No amount of positive talk is strong enough to lift you out of your funk. You despair at every curve ball thrown at you. And that is ok. Abso-fricken-lutely OK. Anger and resentment doesn’t mean you’re a phony. It doesn’t mean you’re going against all the wonderful things you believe in. It simply means you’re human, and because of all the overtime hours you put in, your battery has run out. And for someone who so carefully charges your simple phone why wouldn’t you take some time off to charge yourself? So give yourself time to cry. Let yourself feel all the anger and grief. Those are some pre

"Mommy, I’m scared.” “Oh Jonathan, not again. We talked about this, remember? You need to sleep, you have a big day tomorrow with the field trip.” “But”… “Trust me on this honey. I promise you. There are no such things as monsters.” “Ok, mommy. You really promise?” “I do, baby.” “Mommy?” “Yes, baby?” “Can you leave the door open?” “Sigh. Sure. Sleep well, ok. I love you.” “Love you, mommy.” Rachel walked down the narrow hallway to her bedroom. She got in and shut the door. Shrugged off her robe and stood by the bed. She should probably speak to his teacher tomorrow. Maybe something was going on at school? She was so lost in thought, that she almost didn’t hear it the first time. A high, childlike voice. A voice she knew and loved. She turned around in confusion and saw him. Her eyes widened. He was almost exactly the same, but… so wrong. Almost like he had been reassembled in a hurry. She saw spines and hair where there should be none, and rows of sharp, pointy teeth. God thos

When I think back to my childhood, I often go through a quick mental Rolodex of half blurry images — carnival music, the ocean, playing with my cousin, grandma’s food, reading with my mom, my sister tugging on my sleeve. And then somehow, those memories creep into view. Kids laughing at me, a teacher’s stern reprimand, my best friend who no longer liked me. The pain is still real and my feelings are still raw, covered by a thin scab of time and pseudo-maturity. I was a kid with an overactive, rich imagination. My parents were (are) decent, loving folk who praised me reasonably often. But that message didn’t reach my brain, which was like this constantly overzealous hamster — a hamster training for the wheely marathon.Till I was a little older and realized that I could transcribe these thoughts to paper, I struggled with 2 realities — the reality of the world and the reality that I was sure existed just under the surface. I imagined slights, analyzed micro-expressions (before

Somewhere in the first year post spawning my older son, I dropped all pretense of perfection. The first to go were any and all attempts at using concealers and other makeup miscellanies (seriously, does anyone really know how primers work, or if they even do)? I traded in my sleek dresses and snazzy shoes for stretchy yoga pants and slip-on sneakers. The baby didn’t really care and thought I was just divine as long as the milk-burp-diaper cycle was running like clockwork. So I embraced this new paradigm and proceeded to act busy. I wasn’t THAT busy. Of course, I was viciously sleep deprived and pretty happy to talk about it. I got really good at making this vague clawing gesture anytime someone asked me to ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’. I also spent a disproportionate amount of time obsessing over baby bodily functions (I’ll spare you the details, except to tell you it rhymes with hoop and sometimes tarts). Housework existed, as did the world outside my motherhood bubble but (

S he was a hard one to read. Oh you'll know right away if she was mad or getting ready to deliver a snippy comment (always obvious from the way she scrunched up her face). But on the whole, as an entire person....well, it was impossible to just pigeonhole her and say " Oh she's such a sensitive soul/ she's a raging flake/ she just is such a good listener. She wasn't any of those, but a poor amalgamation of all those traits. Just when you thought she was going to head a certain way, she'd turn around and do the complete opposite. The weird thing was, you wouldn't even be surprised, because this inconsistency was exactly consistent with what you'd come to expect of her .  She had a temper. No doubt about that. It was explosive and (obviously) unpredictable. The same things didn't trigger her always - she had this armor of sarcasm and apathy to deflect repeated insults. But when something did push her over the edge, it was not pr