Sometime between 15 and 18 months old, my middle child went silent. One day, he was babbling away, filling our home with those delightful, nonsensical toddler conversations. The next? Nothing.
Shortly after, we received a diagnosis of Autism. And as I sat in my pediatrician’s office, bracing myself for the emotional landslide, she handed me a printed copy of that essay.
Ah yes, "Welcome to Holland."
It’s a metaphor about how parenting a child with disabilities is like expecting to go on a glamorous, dream-filled trip to Italy—Michelangelo! Pasta! Gondolas!—only to step off the plane and realize, surprise, you’ve landed in Holland instead. No pasta. Just windmills and tulips.
The first time I read it, years before becoming a parent myself, I found it sweet and touching. I probably even reshared it on Facebook, feeling deeply enlightened. Because of course, I understood what it must be like to be a special-needs parent from one heartfelt metaphor.
Ha.
The second time I read it? Sitting there in my pediatrician’s office? Oh, I had thoughts.
Plot Twist: I Wasn’t Supposed to Be on a Plane at All
The biggest issue with Welcome to Holland is the not-so-subtle implication that I needed time to “come to terms” with my child—as if he were a disappointing travel reroute I needed to accept.
But here’s the thing:
There was never a single, microscopic, fleeting moment where I was disappointed in my son. I never needed to "learn to love the windmills." I loved him before he was born. I loved him when he was first placed in my arms. And I loved him in that office, diagnosis and all.
Did I panic? Oh, absolutely. But not because I was in the wrong country—because I suddenly realized I’d been given a map in a language I didn’t understand and was expected to navigate it immediately.
Ironically, my kid could probably have figured it out before I did. He learned to read and write Cyrillic before he was potty trained. Meanwhile, I’m over here Googling “what even IS a social story?” while begging him to consider that toilets aren’t actually optional.
"Slower-Paced and Less Flashy?" Are You Joking?
The essay describes Holland as calm and peaceful, a place of simple beauty. Which sounds lovely and all, except for the fact that raising a neurodivergent child is anything but peaceful.
You want to talk about “flashy?” My child announces his presence to the world through music. We called him Bumblebee because, before he had the words for what he needed, he’d use song lyrics to communicate. Imagine trying to decode a toddler's needs through cryptic Beatles references—it's a skill I now consider more valuable than anything I learned in college.
And “slower-paced?” My son zipped through an entirely different alphabet before the age of three but has zero patience for small talk. Functional conversation? That’s the real puzzle.
So sure, maybe I wasn't technically in Italy. But I also wasn't sipping coffee in a quiet Dutch café. I was sprinting through a musical, multilingual, pink-and-penguin-filled whirlwind of a world that only my kid could create.
Holland? I Think We’re All Just Stumbling Around Amsterdam Together
Another part of Welcome to Holland talks about the loneliness—watching friends go off to their picture-perfect, postcard-ready Italian lives while you sit in a field of tulips, feeling left behind.
Not my friends.
Maybe I got lucky, but my circle isn’t off partying in some far-off land without me. My people are right here, handing me another cup of coffee and making sure I don’t drown in the chaos.
They’re teaching their children about diversity. They’re helping me navigate tough moments, celebrating milestones with me, and making sure that if I need a break, someone is already holding out the chocolate and a fresh cup of coffee.
Because here’s the real secret:
Parenting doesn’t happen in different countries. It happens in the same messy, beautiful, chaotic world we all share.
So Where Are We Going, Anyway?
Here’s what I’ve come to realize:
Parenting isn’t a destination. It’s a journey.
We all start out with a vague idea of what our trip will look like. Some of us expect a quick weekend getaway. Others have color-coded, Pinterest-level itineraries. But eventually, no one gets the trip they originally planned.
Some of us take detours. Some of us get lost. Some of us end up in a wildly different place than we expected and have to figure it out on the fly.
And some of us? Some of us get dropped into the middle of the ocean and have to swim.
But here’s the thing—swimming makes you strong.
And when I look at my child—this flamingo-and-penguin-loving, brilliantly unique, laugh-until-you-can’t-breathe kind of kid—I realize that I didn’t miss out on Italy at all.
I just had to take a different route to get there.
Final Thoughts: A Toast to the Fellow Swimmers
To the parents still treading water, trying to figure out which way is land—I see you.
To the ones who never got the trip they planned but wouldn’t trade it for the world—isn’t it funny how life works out?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy more coffee and snacks, because we have another full day of swimming ahead.
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On May 3rd, 2025, Rhys will be walking in Neurodiverse Network's May Mile to support neurodivergent families, we’d love for you to consider a $5 donation here. https://givebutter.com/MayMile25/rhys GO TEAM RHYS!!!!
When visiting events and local businesses, be sure to tell them Macaroni KID sent you... and don't forget to tell all your friends!
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