I Want To Invite My Friends To A Pool Party.

Asaf wearing the teeshirt i designed for him for his birthday.

Twenty-six years ago I became a mother.

Little did I know what that title would come to mean, or the journey that lay ahead.

For many years Asaf's birthdays were emotionally complicated.

On the one hand, I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to celebrate him. But I never really knew what would make him happy because he couldn't tell me.

On the other hand, every birthday was a reminder of everything we thought he was missing.

Then, everything changed.

Since Asaf began communicating through typing, birthdays have become something completely different.

Last year, for the very first time, I asked him what he wanted for his birthday.

His answer was wonderfully ordinary.

He wanted new clothes because he wanted to look smart.

He wanted aftershave because he loves smelling good.

And that's exactly what he received.

This year, I asked him an even bigger question.

"How would you like to celebrate your birthday?"

His answer stopped me in my tracks.

"I'd like to invite my friends to a pool party on the kibbutz."

Asaf knows that now, when he tells me what he wants, I will do everything I can to make it happen.

For twenty-three years he couldn't share his wishes. Now that he can, I never want to stand in his way.

So we planned the party.

On Sunday evening, seven friends came to celebrate with him.

Even writing those words fills my heart.

Seven friends.

Two years ago, I don't think Asaf had anyone I could truly describe as a friend. Not because he didn't long for friendship, but because none of us knew how much was happening beneath the silence.

Seven friends were able to come, and together we spent a beautiful evening by the kibbutz pool.

There was Metallica playing in the background, pizza, pasta, birthday cake, and enough bottles of aftershave to stock a small perfume shop.

Asaf smiled throughout the evening, but I still wondered what he really thought of it all.

The next day, during his typing session, I asked him.

His answer was simple.

"It was perfect."

For twenty-six years I had celebrated birthdays hoping they were what he wanted.

This was the first time he was able to tell me that they were.

A few days later, we celebrated again at Merchavim with the friends who couldn't make the pool party.

Each of them wrote Asaf a birthday message.

One wrote,

"Thank you for the pool party. It was perfect."

Another wrote,

"My dear friend, I love you."

One friend, who shares Asaf's love of heavy metal, wrote,

"I want to go to a big concert with you."

Another wrote,

"I want to travel with you."

Reading those messages, I found myself quietly wiping away tears.

Two years ago, I couldn’t imagine Asaf would ever experience friendship in the way so many of us take for granted.

Today, I wasn't reading words written by staff.

I wasn't reading words written by family.

I was reading plans, dreams, and affection shared between friends.

As a mother, I can't begin to describe what that felt like.

People often see Asaf's disability first.

I see it too.

But now I also see something that once felt impossible.

I see a young man who is funny, kind, thoughtful, caring, and deeply loved by his friends.

And most of all he has been imbued with an incredible amount of emotional intelligence.

As I read through the birthday messages, one final note made me smile.

It was from Asaf himself.

"Be prepared that I'll invite you to the kibbutz many more times. I love you."

Reading those words, I realised something.

Perhaps the greatest gift this birthday wasn't the presents.

It wasn't the cake.

It wasn't even the party.

It was seeing my son surrounded by people who don't just know him.

They value him.

They make plans with him.

They look forward to spending time with him.

They call him their friend.

Twenty-six years after becoming his mother, I am finally watching Asaf build the life I always hoped was possible.

And there is no greater birthday gift than that.

Sunrise over Nachal Hakibutzim