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New-Will it ever get better?
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<blockquote data-quote="Babbs" data-source="post: 300766" data-attributes="member: 3820"><p>Welcome - I don't post very often but I lurk (horribly so) and the folks here are incredibly supportive and understand where you're coming from.</p><p></p><p>You reminded me of a story "Welcome to Holland" by Emily Pearl Kingsley about raising kids with disabilities.</p><p></p><p>"When you are going to have a baby, its' like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful vacation plans -- The coliseum, Michelangelo's David, the gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting. </p><p></p><p>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."</p><p></p><p>"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."</p><p></p><p>But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay. The important thing is they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place full of pestilence, famine, and disease. It's just a different place. </p><p></p><p>So you must go out and buy new guidebooks. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.</p><p></p><p>It's just a different place. It's slower paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there awhile and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts.</p><p></p><p>But everybody 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 planned."</p><p></p><p>The pain of that will never, ever go away, because of the loss of that dream is a very significant loss. But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never been free to enjoy the very special, very lovely things about Holland."</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>There are days I know that I've felt that Holland is a horrible, disgusting place full of pestilence and disease. But somehow I manage to get myself to step back, take a deep breath and see the glimmers of Rembrandts, windmills, and tulips. I know that I celebrate all the achievements in my son's life because he works so darned that much harder than most kids his age to get there. And I sometimes have to be very joyful over the little achievements (like dinner without a tantrum).</p><p></p><p>I know that I find all the guidebooks that I can possibly read, that I try to spend time enjoying the sights and not just the pavement on the road of the journey. And that because my son has taken me to Holland sometimes I get to see other sights that most kids don't show their parents - like the beautiful flower growing on the side of the road on the way to the bus stop, the bug crossing the street, the insight into how certain mechanical things work that is above MY head - all the amazing and wonderful things that are part of difficult child's uniqueness. And that despite the dike exploding at times, the loving gentle part of difficult child is the big brother who kisses his unborn little brother goodnight every night without me saying a word because difficult child already loves him.</p><p></p><p>A friend gave me a copy of the Welcome to Holland story. I have it posted on my fridge, the back of my bedroom door (for when I need to close it and bang my head in frustration) and on my cubical wall at work. </p><p></p><p>I don't think I've "accepted" my difficult child's "situation." I've accepted that there are medical/neurological reasons for his behavior. I've accepted that I can't parent him like I could parent a typically developing child. I've accepted that most folks who go to Italy won't have a clue as to what those of us in Holland deal with. But I haven't accepted that this is what it will always be like - I'm constantly seeking help and support from groups, I'm constantly seeking out the latest research not only on medication but also behavioral therapies and learning structures. I'm constantly asking questions and questioning difficult child's doctors, therapist, teachers, and school staff about whys, and hows, and whens, and pushing to do more, learn more, and make changes. </p><p></p><p>I didn't mean to make this as long as it is (I'm a little hyped up from an emotional meeting at work tonight). I guess the short version would be I haven't accepted it nor do I think most of the parents here have - that's how we get our strength to keep fighting and changing our difficult child's lives for the better. Because we believe in change.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Babbs, post: 300766, member: 3820"] Welcome - I don't post very often but I lurk (horribly so) and the folks here are incredibly supportive and understand where you're coming from. You reminded me of a story "Welcome to Holland" by Emily Pearl Kingsley about raising kids with disabilities. "When you are going to have a baby, its' like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful vacation plans -- The coliseum, Michelangelo's 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 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 guidebooks. 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 awhile and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts. But everybody 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 planned." The pain of that will never, ever go away, because of the loss of that dream is a very significant loss. But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never been free to enjoy the very special, very lovely things about Holland." There are days I know that I've felt that Holland is a horrible, disgusting place full of pestilence and disease. But somehow I manage to get myself to step back, take a deep breath and see the glimmers of Rembrandts, windmills, and tulips. I know that I celebrate all the achievements in my son's life because he works so darned that much harder than most kids his age to get there. And I sometimes have to be very joyful over the little achievements (like dinner without a tantrum). I know that I find all the guidebooks that I can possibly read, that I try to spend time enjoying the sights and not just the pavement on the road of the journey. And that because my son has taken me to Holland sometimes I get to see other sights that most kids don't show their parents - like the beautiful flower growing on the side of the road on the way to the bus stop, the bug crossing the street, the insight into how certain mechanical things work that is above MY head - all the amazing and wonderful things that are part of difficult child's uniqueness. And that despite the dike exploding at times, the loving gentle part of difficult child is the big brother who kisses his unborn little brother goodnight every night without me saying a word because difficult child already loves him. A friend gave me a copy of the Welcome to Holland story. I have it posted on my fridge, the back of my bedroom door (for when I need to close it and bang my head in frustration) and on my cubical wall at work. I don't think I've "accepted" my difficult child's "situation." I've accepted that there are medical/neurological reasons for his behavior. I've accepted that I can't parent him like I could parent a typically developing child. I've accepted that most folks who go to Italy won't have a clue as to what those of us in Holland deal with. But I haven't accepted that this is what it will always be like - I'm constantly seeking help and support from groups, I'm constantly seeking out the latest research not only on medication but also behavioral therapies and learning structures. I'm constantly asking questions and questioning difficult child's doctors, therapist, teachers, and school staff about whys, and hows, and whens, and pushing to do more, learn more, and make changes. I didn't mean to make this as long as it is (I'm a little hyped up from an emotional meeting at work tonight). I guess the short version would be I haven't accepted it nor do I think most of the parents here have - that's how we get our strength to keep fighting and changing our difficult child's lives for the better. Because we believe in change. [/QUOTE]
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