It was a little more than a year ago that I received an email in my in-box from a woman named Kristin. She'd read one of my stories (I think it was an essay about my oldest son Carter's broken leg) and was wondering if I'd like to submit writing samples and maybe begin working for ParentDish.

I told her that I was interested, but that lately, I'd been writing mostly about my son Avery, who has Down syndrome. I wanted to keep doing that, because as a new mom to him, I'd been hungry for such stories. But there were very few places that regularly included these kinds of parenting experiences--often I'd been told they were "too scary" or "depressing."

I remember the phone conversation with Kristin clearly. I said, "I want to do it, but can I write about Avery? I hope it will be okay?"

And the rest, as the saying goes, is history--I've written more than 80,000 words over 118 posts at ParentDish, first for Kristin and then for Susan, mostly about being a mom to a son with Down syndrome.

When I began, I worried about the weekly deadlines. I hadn't been on a similar writing schedule since college. And too, I'd had enough experiences in my life that let me know the world isn't always a welcoming place to a writer, or a mama, or a child with an extra chromosome, and I'd be combining all 3.

I wrote my first columns from our house on a hilltop near a lake. As the months progressed, I found myself writing from a fold-down table in a travel trailer, from a coffee shop with deep, velvet couches, from a McDonald's and a Subway and 2 libraries. Later still, from a wobbly table in 70-year-old log cabin, using a dial-up connection that quit whenever the wind blew. Sometimes I'd have tears in my eyes; other times I'd be laughing. But always, I wrote.

I wrote posts in my head while driving to and from the grocery store; I wrote while watching Sesame Street with the little boys, I wrote on long walks. I even wrote posts in my dreams.

There were stories about fumbling and failing; there were stories about cupcakes and jelly beans and lemonade. I wrote about cooking scrambled eggs and wearing fake diamonds and hanging the laundry out to dry. In winter, we made angels in the snow; in summer, I wrote about heat and smoke and forest fires. The cast of characters included my boys--Carter, Avery, and Bennett--and others, in supporting roles, like frogs, a puppy, fish, and an old cat.

The weekly deadlines became a part of me, and what's more, I came to need them. I needed to hear from you each week--to touch base, to connect, to give and receive encouragement and understanding and support. You've helped me be a better writer; you've helped me see how I can be a better friend and wife and mother too, and I'm so very grateful.

But the boys no longer sleep late--they rise with the sun, with me, and the quiet of the early morning has been replaced by boisterous, happy, wakeful children (and the puppy, who has grown into a spotty dog with an impossibly long, curling tail). The daylight passes too quickly and before I know it, the moon is rising and there are stars to count and wishes to name.

The leaves are beginning to turn, and of course each one must be examined and marveled at, then gathered into a pile to be jumped in, again and again. We have bread to bake and pumpkin soup to make and through it all, I have children to raise.

It's time.

If this column at ParentDish has been a podium, it's time to step away and make room for another voice. Another writer, another family, another mama with her own stories to tell. I don't know how to explain it other than to say it's like the moment when I knew I wouldn't be having any more babies. I held a newborn in my arms and thought, Ah, that's nice. Now where are my boys?

Which is to say, it's time to say goodbye. And thank you, for everything.

Nearly 5 years ago, I found myself at a wedding in a city far from my home, away from my 3-month-old twins who'd been born prematurely, and had recently been released from the NICU.

The fact that I would leave my family at such a time to travel to this wedding says a lot about the couple being married that day: I'd known the bride since girlhood and felt as close to her as if she were a sister.

Being mom to 3 children was still new to me, then; people would ask if I had kids and I'd answer, "Yes, a 4-year-old," and then hastily add, "And twins! The babies are 3 months."

Only sometimes did I say that my son Avery had Down syndrome. I didn't have the words figured out, yet. I didn't know how to manage my reactions as well as the reactions of others. Even the terms were problematic: sometimes I'd say "Down syndrome," sometimes I preferred "Trisomy 21," which sounded (to me) more scientific and was less likely to elicit stereotypes.

Too, I sometimes said too much. I'd go into great detail about all of it--my water breaking at dawn (what a lovely image!) and the premature delivery and Avery's diagnosis, on and on, until I was exhausted and so was my poor conversation partner, whom I'm sure was regretting the one simple question that unlocked Pandora's box.

My middle son Avery is sitting too close to the television, which is an old fight and not one I'm particularly interested in revisiting at the moment. Like most of America, we've watched the dazzling opening ceremonies of the Olympics in Beijing and we're hooked. I'm rooting for the moms: weightlifter Melanie Roach whose son has autism, and gymnast Oksana Chusovitina, who moved to Germany for her son's oncology treatments.

Avery has 2 favorite events: swimming and gymnastics. When the athletes line up across the pool, he counts, "One, two, three," and then says and signs the word "Go!" The sign for go is thumbs up, index fingers pointing forward, like a starter's gun going off.

If Avery's countdown matches the actual one, and the swimmers dive on his "Go!" he brings his hands to his face and covers it, shy, giggling, and extra-pleased with himself. Avery is 5-years-old. He's my middle son, a fraternal twin, and he has Down syndrome.

Having Down syndrome means, in this instance, that the gymnastics events of the Olympics are one place where he can watch other people who are as flexible as he is. He rolls around our carpet and spreads his legs into splits, or folds himself in half, pulling his feet up to his ears. For good measure, he flips back over and kicks his leg up into the air, so that his toes are almost touching the top of his head.

And when he's finished, he jumps to standing and raises his hands in the air, like the Olympians he sees on television. He waves to the crowd (usually me) then struts off into the kitchen, which is my cue to burst into applause. He returns, shy and giggling again, and dives into my lap for a hug.

Avery is healthy and has had excellent medical care since his birth. As his family, we've received help in the form of physical therapy and speech therapy and connections through our local child development center. We've been able to meet and enjoy other families who live with Down syndrome at annual events, like the upcoming Buddy Walks, which usually take place in the fall and are organized by the more than 275 affiliates across the country. All these things are a normal and natural part of living with disability in the United States; but these rights are not available everywhere in the world.

Before Avery came into my life, like most people, I was aware of another Olympics, a different one, a special one. But it wasn't until I was watching the Beijing Olympics with Avery that I began to understand their importance. The Special Olympics is an international, nonprofit organization dedicated to improving the life of children and adults with intellectual disabilities, by encouraging them to become physically fit through sports training and competition.

And with more than 500,000 athletes from China, more than 210,000 in India, nearly 550,000 in the United States, 600 in Afghanistan and 4,400 in Rwanda, the Special Olympics is more than a sports organization for people with intellectual disabilities--it's a powerful force for social change.

Before this year, my favorite part of the Olympics used to be the medals ceremonies. I loved the athletes for their single-minded pursuit of excellence; when they'd lower their heads ever-so-slightly to receive the medals around their necks, tears always came to my own eyes. To me, the athletes represented perfection, or at least, the human endeavor to obtain it.

But now, watching the Olympics in Beijing this year, with Avery twirling and spinning across our carpet to the music of the floor exercises, or seeing his delight and excitement when the swimmers kick and splash their way to the final lap, I can't help but think that I've been missing the point.

I recalled the opening ceremony--the thousands of athletes marching proudly around the venue. I remembered an announcer commented that most of the participants will not receive medals; that in fact, many countries have never received any medals. And yet they were there, part of it, their dreams shining as brightly as anyone's.

They remind me of Avery, and the extra hours of hard work it took him to learn to walk. Or the amazing concentration it takes for him to speak the word "Go." Or the truly remarkable resilience of the human spirit. It's not the medal that matters to me, anymore. It's where you start, and how you finish, and what you make of the journey in between.

A remarkable thing happened, here in our little valley where nothing much seems to be going on most days, where the grasses have grown tall and the seed-heads keep them heavy and nodding, sleepy, especially in the late afternoons.

By then, the hot summer sun has slipped behind the ridge in back of the house; then, the light filters through the cottonwoods along the little creek and the sounds of the day seem to quiet, distilling to the essence of summer. The wind in the leaves, the occasional cry of a hawk, the faintest trickling of water from the spring.

A mood of tranquility, a spell of summer, until it's broken by the cries of my kids, "Mom! Mom! Mom! Come quick!"

I rush out the front gate, where I'm met by 3 out-of-breath boys. Carter, the oldest, holds in his right hand a butterfly net with a plastic orange handle. His left hand is squeezing the net closed. It's clear they've caught something and I peer through the mesh to see what it might be.

It's a frog.

Their excitement is contagious and my heart begins to race, too. I can't remember the last time I've seen such a thing, maybe never? My girlhood wasn't overly-full of frogs. I think about what a frog might need: a home, some food, rocks, water? Don't they eat flies?

I rush into the house and return with an empty plastic container, the kind that once held an enormous amount of lettuce. We poke holes in the top with a stick and Carter deposits the frog into the new, temporary home.

We form a semi-circle around the plastic container, regarding its contents. Even as we watch him (and I don't know why I think it's a him), he's watching back, 2 deep, brown froggy eyes trained on us.

He's not really green; he's more brown, but whitish underneath. There are large, black spots ringed with black circles on either side of his spine. His legs are thick with muscles and his toes are long and slender. He seems big to me, the size of my fist, or larger.

He tries to hop and the whole plastic container jumps with him. We all leap back. My middle son Avery raises his hands to his face, his mouth forming a wide, startled, Oh! And I have to agree: Oh!

It's amazing, to me, all of it: that we'd be here, the 4 of us, on this airy summer day; that Carter, who I remember so clearly as a tiny baby, has grown into this brave and confident frog-catcher of a boy; that his brothers are next to him, the babies I'd waited for and hoped for and even still, when they finally arrived, I was totally unprepared.

I remember everything--the days spent in and out of the NICU and my one wish, an unspoken prayer that was so simple, yet it seemed impossible: Please let my babies know this world. Please let them grow big enough to have a life outside this hospital air, these beeping machines. Please let them breath real air, let them feel the softness of a purple summer twilight.

Never once did I imagine we'd be here: it was a dream too big to hope for. And since then, there have been so many summer twilights, and I am greedy for them, my prayer now is like a child bumping 2 fists together, which is sign language for more. I want more--I want these days to last forever.

And the frog. Sometime back in the spring, when I was making scrambled eggs one morning, or buttering toast, he was there in the creek. When I fed the wood stove against the cold and the little boys practiced letters and numbers, he was there. When I swept the floor, or loaded the washing machine, or tucked the boys into bed, all the while he was there.

As my boys grew so did this frog, near us, touched by the light from the windows in the evenings, or the rumble of the Red Flyer wagon as we pulled it past the creek. Sharing the same sunshine when the spring turned to summer, and witnessing the same thunderstorms playing across the sky. And I'm reminded of how all things are connected. How even when we sometimes can't see it, wonders exist right outside the front door.

This was just after the twins were born and we'd gotten home from the NICU: the phone rang and my husband Tom took the call. A few minutes later, he hung up. There was a dazed expression on his face.

"That was the pediatric cardiologist," Tom said. "He called to tell us the good news. We won't be taking a life flight to Seattle for emergency heart surgery. " He paused, letting the words hang in the air around us. "I didn't know," he said finally, "that such a thing was even a possibility."

I hadn't realized it, either. But there were so many things I was just beginning to understand, then. I thought back to my many ultrasounds with Tally, whose name always made me smile (each week she took a tally of our babies!) and the numerous, grainy black-and-white images of Bennett, the small bones in his back like a tiny string of pearls; or of Avery who, more often than not, was sucking his thumb.

Each measurement--of the bones in each baby's leg, or the width of each head, or the blood pumping through four chambers of each heart, was met with, "Everything looks fine," and despite what eventually followed--the twins' premature delivery and 5 days later, Avery's diagnosis of Down syndrome--I still had faith in those words. Why would anything be wrong with Avery's heart?

As it happens, babies with Down syndrome are 40-50% more likely to be born with a heart defect: some of the conditions are minor, and can be addressed with medication, but others require surgery. Hence, our cardiologist's comment to Tom, which was indeed, good news.

Since that time, I've learned even more things about being mother to a child with Down syndrome. I've learned that one of the more common problems in babies with Down syndrome is called atrioventricular septal defect (AVSD), sometimes called AV canal, a condition that affects the walls between the two upper chambers and the two lower chambers of the heart.

Which is how I came to have, in my hands, a white manila envelope from the Kennedy Krieger Institute, an internationally recognized facility dedicated to improving the lives of children and adolescents with disabilities. And though the institute is located in Baltimore, MD, and we're in Montana, I've agreed to participate in a collaborative research effort designed to help identify genetic and environmental factors related to congenital heart disease in Down syndrome.

My role in this study is minimal: since we don't have any heart issues, we'll be part of the comparison group. I need to fill out a medical questionnaire, and sign some release forms. I need to supply the team with a copy of Avery's karyotype, which is a profile of a person's chromosomes. In Avery's case, it shows 3 genes at the 21st chromosome instead of the usual 2, and was how we confirmed the diagnosis. And the researchers need a copy of the echocardiogram, the one that the cardiologist telephoned Tom about.

In a few weeks, I'll participate in a telephone interview too, answering questions about my medical history and my pregnancies. And Avery will donate 1/5 teaspoon of blood for DNA analysis--this will be, in fact, the most difficult part. Avery has his blood tested every year for TSH and T-4 Thyroid function, and we'll get the sample then. In the beginning, he'd approach these blood draws with his usual cheerfulness and good will, smiling at the nurses and even flirting a bit. It's happened often enough that now, just the sight of the medical clinic sets his chin to quivering, big teardrops already forming in the corners of his dark blue eyes.

Why would I consider such a thing? Before becoming Avery's mom, I probably wouldn't have. The world to me, then, seemed like something "out there" that was mostly none of our business. But having Avery made everything personal--the families in the NICU with us, the children we know at the CDC, the babies with heart surgeries, they are close to me, now. I'd once thought that having a child with a visible disability would isolate my family--but instead, most times, I've found the opposite to be true. Avery brings people together.

It's a small thing, our participation in the Kennedy Krieger Institute research, but it's what we can do.

When the twins were still babies, I used to sit with them in the rocking chair. I'd arrange them like the nurses in the NICU showed me, one in each arm, heads on my chest. The rhythm of the rocking chair reminded me of a heart beat, too--bump-bump. Bump-bump. And I'd feel it, then, our connectedness, all of our hearts beating as one.

For more information on the Kennedy Krieger Institute study contact Charnan Koller.

I have a memory from when the twins were about 2-years-old--I was past the intense worry of any relapse that would send us back to the NICU, and I'd finished reading everything I could find about Down syndrome. I began to poke my head up and look about and wonder, What are other families with kids with Down syndrome like? It was this curiosity that brought me to my first special needs play date at our local Child Development Center.

I remember rushing out the door, after spending too much time looking for an inexplicably missing shoe. I remember feeling nervous at the thought of meeting new people, especially other moms. Several times, I nearly turned the car around and headed home. Even in the parking lot, when I could see that a small circle of women had already gathered, I was overcome with doubt, thinking, Why did I agree to do this? and then telling myself, "It's for the kids; it's for Avery." But of course, it didn't turn out that way.

All these thoughts were familiar, and reminded me of my very first play group with my oldest son Carter. Both times, there was a wicker laundry basket in the middle of the room, filled with board books and stuffed animals and a Little People Yellow School Bus and bright Duplo blocks and a Lights and Sounds Shape Sorter. Nearby, there was an assortment of cookies and juice boxes. A mountain of shoes and jackets were piled in a corner, next to a stack of empty baby carriers and a line of parked strollers.

Other things were familiar: introductions, including the names of the children. The questions: "How many kids do you have? and "How old is your baby?" and "Where did you deliver?" Later, mostly told quietly, birth stories.

But these birth stories included a part about getting a diagnosis. Sometimes they were sad; other times they told of great relief in having an answer. The stories often referenced medical terms, and things like monitors and IV lines and extended hospital stays, even surgeries on tiny newborns.

The conversations covered practical matters, like PT, OT, ST. SSI, SSA, Early Intervention. Low tone versus high tone. Ear tubes, vitamin therapy. Dry skin, thyroid tests. And theoretical matters, too, like how prenatal diagnosis impacts the rights of the unborn, or how sibling relationships are affected by disability, or how various cultures view children and adults with visible differences.

The same, in both groups: mother guilt ("Am I doing enough?"); striving for balance ("Sometimes I feel overwhelmed."); and love ("I can't imagine my life without my child.") Both times, the hours passed too quickly, resulting in a mad dash to match shoes to feet, coats to kids until everyone was headed out the door, back to real life.

What I've come to realize is no less true for its obviousness: the play groups are as much for the moms as they are for the kids. It's a place where women can meet, if only briefly, with other moms who might share similar experiences--who might come to their mothering with common reference points.

Increasingly, I've been finding those shared experiences by connecting with other mothers online. Our words are what defines us; I'm drawn to the woman whose son might have a different diagnosis than mine, but her outlook on parenting feels like my own. Or a family halfway across the world, living in Australia--but they, too, have one older sibling and a set of twins, one with Down syndrome, one without. Sharing our stories--across the miles, across time--enables me to see our connectedness, our common bonds as families.

In the spirit of sharing, here are two sites that I love: Can I Sit With You? is an ongoing book and blog project that explores "The Stormy Social Seas of the Schoolyard." It's a collaborative effort fueled by donations of time and talent, and all proceeds are used to fund a local Special Needs PTA.

And identical twin sisters Janice and Susan, founders of 5 Minutes for Mom, recently launched 5 Minutes for Special Needs, edited by Tammy, who writes about her experiences mothering a medically fragile boy with Down syndrome at Praying for Parker. It's a group blog where parents of kids with special needs can find "support, insight, and inspiration."

What I've found, in all these instances--online and in person--is the value in telling our stories, to each other and because of each other. There we find strength, we find solace, we find commonalities. But mostly, we find ourselves.

Here's one thing you might not know about my son Avery: before each meal, he insists that we all say grace.

In our family, that means we join hands and say a little prayer, a simple rhyme for babies and small children that goes like this, "God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food. Amen." When it comes to the end, Avery says "Amen" with such gleeful delight that he's nearly shouting; it sounds more like we're doing a team cheer than giving the food a blessing.

It doesn't matter to Avery where we are--we could be in a restaurant with servers in crisp white shirts and every time you take a sip of water, a busboy appears to refill it for you; or we could be seated beneath a picnic umbrella in the food court of the Costco, eating our hot dogs and soda (with 1 free refill) for a dollar fifty. Either way, Avery will not begin eating until we've joined hands and said grace.

Certainly, this burst of piety isn't something I expected when I learned Avery had Down syndrome. I don't know what I expected, really--my friend Kathy and I were recently talking about it. She's mom to a son with Down syndrome too, and we each had different, albeit wrong, ideas about what being the mom to a special needs child would mean to us. She felt, in part, that it would require her to assume some sort of mantle of "specialness." I thought (and I have no idea why I believed this) that I would need to begin driving a van. A white one.

None of these things have proven true, of course. Being Avery's mom doesn't make me feel any more, or less, special than being a mom to my other kids does. And Avery hasn't needed any extra adaptive equipment (other than the usual things, like when he was littler, a stroller, or now, a car seat) so there's no need for my white van.

What has proven true is that mothering Avery has brought people into my life that I might not have known, otherwise. Therapists, of course, and doctors and nurses. And other parents of children with Down syndrome, and parents of kids with CP and autism and Asperger's. Children who are learning Braille, or sign language. Children who simply don't fit the norm, for any number of reasons.

Sometimes people liken being the parent of a special needs child to having taken a detour in life--like finding yourself in Holland, for example, when you'd made reservations for a trip to Italy. I know this analogy works for some families, but not for others. I've come to understand that the one-size-fits-all approach is not a good model for human beings.

I like saying grace before every meal. I like that Avery reminds us to do it, that he requires us to slow down 3 times a day for a moment of gratitude. Because of him, we hold hands, and are thankful.

I feel that way about my fellow special needs parents. I don't know if you consider yourself in Holland or not, but wherever we are, whenever I poke my head up and look around, I realize I really like my fellow travelers. Parents who can talk PT or ST or OT, parents who know about g-tubes and canulas and oxygen tanks tucked in the corners of rooms. Moms and Dads who know infant CPR and how to insert a trach and what to do if a child turns blue.

We know all these things and we also play Peek-a-Boo and sing "Ring Around the Rosie" and count tiny toes with "This Little Piggy." We marvel at low-tone babies learning to sit up, or at the intricacies of a child decoding the pattern of raised dots in a line of Braille.

There are many things I didn't know about being Avery's mom, in the beginning. But I'm learning, from him, and from all of you. And I wish for us a safe journey to wherever we're headed--may we find our paths filled with lots of grace, and always, traveling mercies.

The man at the library, walking with 2 canes, drags his thin, weak legs behind him up to the water fountain, and one of my boys asks, "What's wrong with him?"

I lift my finger to my mouth in the universal sign for "shhhh." All 3 of my children look at me, confused. They don't understand why I don't want to talk about it--we usually talk about everything, a running dialog on the state of the day, like watching a DVD with the comments turned on, the director and the writers and the actors all adding in their 2 cents.

Just today, we'd discussed why grass is green (and a word that begins with P and sounds like "eff", photosynthesis!) and the new, Harry Potter-esque mural painted on the library wall ("Creepy!" said 5-year-old Bennett; "Cool!" said 9-year-old Carter), so my reluctance to talk about the man using canes stood out simply because of its difference.

Just like the man, himself. And the thing is, I don't know why I was reluctant to talk about it.

Here is a man with a story to tell. One he may, or may not feel like discussing at the water fountain with me and 3 little boys of varying ages and abilities. But how he talks about his life, and how he feels about it, is something I'll never know. I won't know because I didn't have the right words to use to ask.

I've written before about wishing there were a secret handshake for people who love children and adults with Down syndrome. A way of recognizing each other in a crowd--a way of saying hello, without actually having to speak. I'm thinking here of motorcyclists flashing their headlights as they pass each other; a little gesture that announces, I see you.

My son Avery's speech therapist, Molly, would be proud of me for these thoughts. Very early into our sessions, she began trying to explain the concept of Total Communication. What she taught me was that language is only one of the tools we use to communicate with each other. There's also how you say the words--the tone you use, its timbre and pitch. And there's what you choose not to say, which often speaks volumes.

You might be tempted, as I was, to think of the '80s concept of body language, and if you're recalling those cheesy come-on lines ("I can tell by the flip of your hair that you're into me...") you wouldn't be too far off. So Molly worked at teaching me to see the complexities in everyday speech and language; and I worked at breaking down those sequences into their smallest parts, to better teach Avery.

As it happens, even the smallest parts of communication are complicated. Take, for instance, a smile: is it happy, or sneaky? Is it smiling-through-the-tears, or shy? Malicious? Or simply joyful?

Which brings me back to the man at the water fountain in the library--sometimes communicating with each other can be a very tricky endeavor. Later, after the kids and I had left the library and everyone was buckled in the car, I tried to explain, and failed miserably.

I began with a story about a man with one blue finger, and I tried to show how his finger was normal to him; something he may, or may not want to talk about. He might want to have a little discussion about it, or he might want to go about his day, drinking a cool arc of water from the fountain.

And then I realized that my story, and my reaction to the man, was based on the assumption that he would feel bad about his legs, and not want to have attention drawn to them. I don't know this to be true. And I don't know if not talking about disability is any better than talking about it.

When people ask me about Avery, most of the time I'm happy to share what I know about Down syndrome. I'd rather people hear it from us, than make assumptions. I see it as a chance to encourage right-thinking, as opposed to wrong-thinking.

But what is right-thinking, in this case? I suspect the answer is as varied as the 50 million Americans living with disability. In this instance, I take my cues from Total Communication--the man kept his back to us, his eyes down. He didn't engage the boys or me in any way; he seemed busy and intent, a person not interested in casual conversation. And therein lies the key: seeing the person as well as the disability. It's what I wish for Avery--and what I wish for us all.

.

"You look like a flag," my husband Tom tells me and I smile, because I know what he means. We go through this every summer in the days leading up to the 4th of July. It's a bit ridiculous, I know: cheesy and sentimental and a little over-the-top. But I can't help it.

I dress myself in red, white and blue.

It's my summer compulsion--just as surely as the days become progressively warmer, the color red pushes its way toward the front of my closet. Combine it with the already-busy whites plus the blue of my trusty jeans, and you've got the makings of an American flag.

Tiny white stars on a red background begin to appeal to me this time of year; alternating stripes of blue on a white background (or is it white on a blue background?) look lovely. And for this brief time at the beginning of July, I see red, white and blue everywhere: red flip-flops, red bandannas, ripe, red strawberries in the grocery store. Blue skies, blue jeans, plump blueberries the size of marbles. White puffy clouds, white petunias, white whipped cream. You know where this is heading, right? A resplendent vanilla flag-cake in the fridge, which is a whole new level of flaginess--not only am I wearing it, but I'm eating it, too.

I usually work in the mornings when the house is quiet, before the rush and hum of our lives takes over the day, like so many parents everywhere--trying to carve out a few extra moments; trying to keep my hand on the slim thread of my life before there were kids, and peanut butter toast and jam-faces to wipe and milk to pour and now, a puppy to feed and walk, too.

But lately, in these quiet, early mornings, I've had company. My middle son Avery wakes to my softest footfalls, and climbs out of bed just one step behind me. I can hear the door to the boys' room open (Avery is careful not to wake anyone else) and the thump of his tiny bottom as he slides down the stairs. Soon enough he's in my lap, head tucked beneath my chin. He doesn't ask for anything; he doesn't try to stop me. He simply sits in the cup of my lap and falls back asleep, while my fingers plink away at the keyboard on the desk.

This is not what I expected, when I learned I'd be a mom to a child with special needs. It's nothing I could have predicted, based on the books I read or the information we got from the hospital. Back when I was a new mom to Avery, I was hungry for stories about moms of kids like mine. I wanted to be able to imagine our future, but all I could come up with was sadness and adult diapers. I needed help.

One mom writing about her life with her son with Down syndrome is Emily Perl Kingsley. In her widely-read essay, "Welcome to Holland," she uses a travel metaphor to explain her new, unexpected life: she'd been planning to go to Italy like everyone else, but the itinerary changed. Her destination was a different place--not better, not worse, just different. Hers would be a trip to Holland.

"Welcome to Holland" came to me via one of the nurses in the NICU. It was a battered, graying photocopy. Someone had taken the time to add a picture of tulips across the top, and at the end there was a little string of stylized Dutch windmills, more than a dozen marching across the bottom of the page.

At the time, I wasn't sure what to make of such a thing. That the woman writing the essay (Emily) had a perspective to share was clear; whether I would come to agree with it, was not. That the person who created the photocopy wanted to help women like me, mothers trying to find their way, was also clear; how these worn, aged pages would aid me, was not.

This is what happened: I began seeing references to Holland everywhere. All the nurses in the NICU wore a particular brand of shoes--they were clogs. There was, improbably, a reconstructed Dutch windmill just off the highway I traveled each day to and from the hospital. And the farmland windmills dotting the wide, open grasslands (which had always looked to me like symbols of the American prairie) made me think of the windmills of Holland. They, in turn, made me think of a simple children's toy--pinwheels. How could I not have seen all this before?

And the same became true of Down syndrome. I began seeing it everywhere--a lady waiting to cross the street on the corner; a young man pushing a grocery cart with his mother; a baby with a tall shock of brown hair; on television, in the news, in the New York Times.

I've been Avery's mama for 5 years already, and it's not just Holland I see. These days, I'm more likely to notice the man walking with the limp; or the young woman with rigidity in her muscles; or the child overwhelmed by sounds. The causes for such things, or the names for them, are not important to me--what I see is the man, the woman, the child. I see what's different, but I also see what we share.

Even still, I'm sometimes caught off-guard. We live in a 70-year-old log home; its walls are covered with layers of dusty wallpaper that peels from the ceiling in long strips. Each weekend, we tackle another room--scraping, sanding, priming, painting. In the kitchen, beneath the fake-brick wallpaper and the magenta paisley paper, we uncover a pastoral scene: horses, riders, trees, a lake. And at the water's edge? A Dutch windmill, of course, just like the ones on my photocopy.

I hope I would have discovered this way of being in the world on my own, but in truth, I think it's something I owe to becoming Avery's mama. And the thing is, I'm grateful for it. I like my eyes that see. Call it whatever you please--Italy, Holland. I like it here, and I don't want to go back.