A mother on Rikers Island once told me you don’t understand love until you have a child. But I don’t think that’s true. I think you don’t know fear until you become a parent. And then you don’t know a day without it.
As a veteran journalist, I knew there were fears much more urgent than mine. The parents I met in those early days were preoccupied with where and how they would give birth or pay rent or find diapers. Healthcare workers scrambled for day care and day-care workers improvised PPE.
I’m no expert here. My job, as I see it, is to be an accountability yenta, the person who finds things out for you. To do it, I’ll draw on a decade-plus of reporting experience, my half-decade as a mom, and 18 years as a student in the state’s public school system. My son, Ram, is 5. His name means “supreme” or “exalted” in his father’s language, though in most ways he’s perfectly ordinary. His favorite animal is an octopus, and he loves mango with Tajín and monkey bars and “Waffles + Mochi” on Netflix. By the time you read this, he’ll likely have lost his first tooth.
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