Christmas is always such a weird time of year in my family. It’s a mixed bag of emotions for me, ranging from the very bad (my Dad’s death three weeks before Christmas six years ago) to the very good (my younger son’s birth on Christmas Day five years ago). Then there’s the fact that almost every year, I find myself inthe midst of some strange family drama that has very little to do with me. I have to deal with someone threatening to boycott Christmas, someone else threatening to decline gift exchange, bizarre arguments, and plans that change multiple times before landing on the original arrangements. Then you add a child with autism, and built-in resistance to changes in routine, and the picture gets very interesting.
This year it wasn’t too bad. As always, I missed my Dad in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but took heart from the fact that Christmas was his favourite time of year and he would be bitterly disappointed to see me having a miserable time on account of his passing. So it was with nostalgia and bittersweet memories that I put up the Christmas decorations this year, just a week before Christmas. Dad would have approved of the Christmas tree laden with ornaments, including James’ plastic Playdough scissors that he insisted be hung on the tree right below the angel. He would have loved the little village I have in George’s room, complete with lights and snow, and he would have nodded approval at the little Christmas tree with lights that I got especially for James’ room.
Here’s the amazing thing that happened this Christmas. There was no family drama. Let’s say that again, shall we? No. Family. Drama. Admittedly, we came close. Gerard and his mother had some words. Said words were taken out of context by both parties, and a big misunderstanding ensued. I have so enjoyed the wonderful feeling of peace and harmony that we have been experiencing with my mother-in-law, and I did not want to let that slip away because of one stupid conversation. I spoke to Gerard. I spoke to my mother-in-law. I smoothed the waters, and explained to each of them what the other meant, and peace reigned again. Mother Theresa would have been proud of me, and for the first time in years, we were able to celebrate the festive season without waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was truly a Christmas miracle.
Things were OK on the George front as well. His resistance to changes in routine has intensified over the last few weeks, and while this did cause some difficulties, there were no crises that we couldn’t handle. They were little things, like the fact that he got extremely anxious whenever the lights on the big Christmas tree were turned on (interestingly enough, he has no problem with the lights on the little tree, or the lights in the village in his room). So, we dealt with it in the simplest way possible. We did without the lights on the tree. When he saw presents, he wanted them opened right away. Seeing a wrapped present that he’s not allowed to open is not a pleasant experience for George. Lots of distraction and tactical planning later, we had all survived, and apart from one casualty, all of the presents were left intact until the proper time.
There was one very difficult moment on Christmas Eve, after my brother-in-law had left with his wife and baby, when we were trying to get the kids settled for bed. Both of the kids, no doubt reacting to the excitement and pure overstimulation, had meltdowns. One autistic, one neurotypical, manifesting their pent-up anxieties in different, but equally loud and stressful, ways. Simultaneously. It was like Meltdown Central at my house, and it took a long time for calm to be restored.
In the end, though, Santa was good to everyone, and we all got through several days of Christmas (and one birthday) as a harmonious, happy family. I can truly say this: Dad would be proud.
