I see you.

One day, not so long ago I was scrolling social media, not because I didn’t have anything else to do- trust me, I always have plenty to do, but because I needed something easy. Something that didn’t require any brain power. And then I saw it.

And then I cried.

I see you, searching the toy aisle for a toy your child could *maybe* do independently.

I see you, buying an infant toy for your elementary age child.

I see you, buying items you’d buy anyways but you need something (anything) under the tree.

I see you, wrapping gifts you know you’ll be unwrapping for your child.

I see you, wipe away a tear as you are reminded just how delayed your child is.

I see you, searching the internet for a toy and not a therapy item to give.

I see you, crying as you’re reminded during the entire Christmas season just how different your child’s life is.

I see you, trying to enjoy the magic of the Christmas season although many of the traditions are hard for your disabled child.

I see you, making cookies your child won’t ever taste or touch.

I see you.

Damn. You’d think I’d be over dealing with this autism diagnosis by now, but grief is funny like that. You see when you get your child’s diagnosis at 2 years old, you think to yourself, “I can fix this, he’ll just be a little quirky.” Then the years go by and even with all the therapy sessions and hard work, you start to reevaluate your goals for their future. Maybe you end up going from - ”He’s going to college, get married, and have kids of his own.” to the realization that “The self contained, life skills classroom is all he can handle.” For many of us the future is no where near what we had hoped for on the day of their birth. It catches you unaware. One day you just know- she’s not going to drive. He’s not going to be able to handle his finances. She’s going to need guardianship. He’s graduated high school or college and not going to be able to keep sustained employment. She’s not able to live on her own. He’s never going to marry and experience life like his other siblings. You recognize this and it’s painful. It snuck up on you like a death by a thousand cuts.

Yes. I see you. I am you. Regardless, I still put in the effort at Christmas and let’s face it, birthdays and all of the other celebrations, to make them special. I want him to have wonderful memories of our life together when I am gone. I want him to remember that mom did her best for him. Yes, that meant adapting traditions but now 20 years later, they are OUR traditions. Make the cookies with them and someday, maybe many years from now, they WILL try them. You don’t have to stand outside with the crowd and watch the lighting of the Christmas decorations, instead bundle everyone in the car, bring your own hot chocolate and drive around the city looking at the lights while listening to Christmas music. Guess what? I was and still am searching for presents that aren’t a therapy item. Buy the Thomas the Tank Engine toddler toy for your 22 year old if that’s what he would enjoy- it’s okay. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks.

Whether it’s been years or just a few days ago when you got that autism diagnosis, you landed in a different place. A different place like Emily Perl Kingsley wrote about in Welcome to Holland You didn’t make it to Italy like you planned, but Holland is special in its own way. Holland has lots of great things to explore so go enjoy them. But the pain of not going to Italy is always going to be there. And the loss of that dream is painful and will be most keenly felt at times of great celebration: birthdays, graduations, weddings, births, deaths and of course holidays like Christmas. It’s okay to mourn the loss. But don’t let the grief rob you of the joy of today’s journey.

Go celebrate! Make your own traditions and enjoy Holland.