When you get a diagnosis of having a child with special needs, you get this poem sent to you. It's in the hospital "new parent" booklet, people email it to you, it's in books you read. It's beautifully written.
"Welcome to Holland"
I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this...... When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting. After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."
"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy." But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay. The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place. So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts. But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned." And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.
But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.
Emily Perl Kingsley 1987
When I was in college I travelled to Europe by myself to hook up with a school group who had already flown to France. I had a layover in Amsterdam. I had no clue where I was. I bought two postcards with some change that had been given to me by a man on the plane who was going home. He said "buy a snack for yourself". I stashed the postcards away and went on to France for two months. For Christmas, Jeff offered to frame some artwork I'd bought over there, including those lovely postcards. They were of fields of tulips - lots of tulips! So since 1998 those framed postcards have hung on our wall, reminding me of my trip to France with a layover in Amsterdam. If you look at the postcards closely, finely printed on the bottom is "Holland". I was in Holland 14 years ago for a brief few hours.
The other day when Ellie was away from us, we went to Whole Foods (fancy-shmancy grocery store) to have lunch at their buffet. We strolled the store first for a while. I was on the hunt for the cheese section like a mouse who hadn't eaten for days. We discovered the 40x40 plot of paradise and I began scourging for samples. Jeff was the one who found that glorious, plastic, dome-shaped thingy that you know is going to come through for you. It was squares of a white cheese and I ate one without even wondering what it was. It was sharp, bold, creamy, aged-tasting, tangy. People that like cheese know these are all good things.
I then noticed the card sitting next to the tray. It read: Gouda, Holland.
What a nice welcome gift.
