Recently I've been thinking about the 1987 essay Welcome to Holland by Emily Perl Kingsley.  A friend gave it to me shortly after we received my older son's autism diagnosis.  The essay elegantly, and succinctly, describes how it feels to raise a child with a disability.  The author writes about a long-awaited vacation to Italy that unexpectedly turns into a visit to Holland instead, artfully creating a metaphor for a typical child-rearing experience to that of raising a child with special needs.  How it would feel to exchange the Coliseum for windmills.  Or Prada for wooden shoes.  The essay resonated with me deeply at the time and over the years I referred it to others, as it did a better job of describing the confusion, grief, anger and isolation that one can feel.

We've been in Holland for over eight years now and time has truly softened my thoughts and feelings about the topic.  Which was why I was surprised that on a beautiful warm evening as I watched my 5 year old typically developing son and his teammates pounce on each other at a baseball game, that the idea of Holland and Italy rose again.

But this time it was different.  This time I was in Italy.

And it really is a remarkable place.  There is always something to do here -- playdates, birthday parties, shared carpools, invitations to outings with other families.  It's amazing how many things there are to see and do with a typically developing child.  You can go places that are noisy and crowded; places that involve competitive sports or unorganized activities.   My youngest participates in these almost effortlessly.  It's been an extraordinary five years.  At times I'm high from the newness of it all and, at others, teary eyed at what we missed with my older son.

Than there are moments like the one I had at the baseball game, where I wondered if Italy will make me forget what I learned in Holland.  If I'll forget to appreciate those small achievements because they come so easily in Italy.  Things like learning to swim, which happened so late for my oldest because it was hard to find a pool that was just the right temperature.  When my son finally passed his deep end test my husband cried.  I cried this past year when, at the age of eleven, my son slipped on his new sneakers, tied them himself and was ready to go in less than five minutes.  We started teaching him on his eighth birthday.  Or how last year on vacation he walked off and spontaneously joined two other kids on the beach for a pick up game of....wait for it...cricket.  For the rest of the vacation, my husband and I would mouth the word cricket to each other and smile giddily.

In her essay, Emily mentions that there are special and lovely things in Holland. But she doesn't mention the sheer joy that is there as well.  Joy from witnessing simple accomplishments.  Celebrations at reaching milestones that were thought to be out of reach for your child.   It's so important to treasure the big and the small achievements, the Italian and the Dutch moments.  Throughout the year I repeatedly glance at the tiny wooden windmill and ceramic leaning tower of Pisa on my desk. Reminders that it is possible and almost preferable to live in two different worlds simultaneously.