Betsy Portune

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I once read a blog post by a mother who was mourning her son’s autism. One of her main complaints was that all he wanted to do all day was stare out the window at trees. On reading that, my reaction was to applaud the child’s aesthetic taste, approve of how he spends his time, and wish I could afford to do the same.
What I Mean When I Say I'm Autistic: Unpuzzling a Life on the Autism Spectrum
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