parents
The boundless love a parent has for their child is matched only by their capacity to embarrass them.
Self-Development in Each Family Member
In the heart of a quaint suburban neighborhood, nestled among blooming gardens and towering oak trees, lived the Thompson family. Their home exuded warmth and coziness, a haven from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. Each member of the Thompson clan was on their own unique journey of self-discovery, yet their paths were intertwined by the bonds of love, support, and a shared commitment to personal growth.
By Fathoni Rochman Subagio2 years ago in Families
Things to Avoid With an Autistic Child
Every parent that gets a diagnosis for autism will wonder how they should handle their child. Questions like what should they do and what shouldn’t they do? Parents want the best possible future for their children and there is nothing wrong with that. The help needed depends on each child but there are some things that parents should steer clear of.
By Dr Prashantt Joshii2 years ago in Families
Travelling to Death
Zulfiqar was an unflinching dad who lived in a regressive region once. He puts a lot of effort during the day to run a small farm and sweets shop and is determined to see his six children succeed. Zulfiqar is incredible of a future where his children would show up at the zenith of perfection.
By Mian Shahid2 years ago in Families
Is there an association between autism and stubbornness?
Comprehending the trait of Stubbornness in individuals with autism It is important to recognize that there is a distinction between stubbornness and rigidity. Stubbornness is characterized by an unwavering commitment to maintain a particular attitude or perspective without any intention of altering it. Meanwhile, rigidity refers to the incapacity to modify or adjust.
By Dr Prashantt Joshii2 years ago in Families
Somehow, Someday. Content Warning.
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I vow to paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; how will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry, a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a "fix it alright" kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, short three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils for me to cherish hidden in my bag and said nothing. I fled, I flew, yet I would return. For no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail. I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Cultivating Creativity in Children: A Scientific Approach
Fostering creativity and innovative thinking in children goes beyond direct instructions and teachings; it's more about nurturing an environment where their creative potential can thrive and blossom. Much like planting a seed in fertile soil, providing the suitable conditions and allowing for organic growth. The scientific discourse around child development consistently underscores the viability of this approach.
By Jennifer Cruise2 years ago in Families
