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For the first two months of his life, all my son did was cry.

He cried in the morning, while I made breakfast for my three-year-old daughter, who covered her ears in annoyance. He cried from his perch in the tiny bouncy seat on the bathroom floor, as I stood in the shower and rested my aching head on the tile wall. He cried all night long, as I paced the room with his tiny body in my arms. Is he hungry? Is he wet? Is he in pain? I never knew. I never could tell! Nothing I tried helped.

As two months turned into four, and four months turned into six, I desperately read my way through series after series of parenting books and consulted a multitude of experts.

"Something's wrong with him. I need help" I said frantically to the doctor after a particularly sleepless week. But he would only look him over and turn back to me, pleased.

"He's in the 95th percentile for weight and height, he's a strong healthy boy. You shouldn't worry so much." The pediatrician would say, patting me on the back. And so my son and I would leave, only to return again.

"He never smiles." I told the doctor, when my son was eighteen months old and still had not slept through the night. "He doesn't talk. My daughter was talkign by now." Something was wrong, I felt it in my bones.

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To follow the author's journey and finish reading her story, visit the Huffington Post: Parents website:

#autism #parenting #child #sadness #anger #growth #acceptance #improvement

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