CARRIE, Christmas 2016:

The true Christmas crisis didn’t come when we had my stepfather and my father in the same room for the first time.

It didn’t happen when we invited my in-laws, and they never answered—probably because my father-in-law didn’t want to be in the same room as my brother-in-law, even though he was home from Africa for the first time in six months.

It wasn’t even a real crisis when my daughter had an anxiety attack after dessert but before we opened presents. Mr Xanax took care of that.

But sure, the nasty moment reminded me —all of us, I think—that therapy sessions, a new school, and all the other efforts weren’t necessarily enough to keep Emma from sliding into the same hole I’ve lived in most of my life—and still have one foot in.

(Except, when no one’s looking, I toss a whiskey bottle into that hole and pretend I’ve climbed out.)

But it was Christmas. It wasn’t supposed to be about me or my problems. It was about being together, no matter what.

So now I get to the real crisis.

You see, we all have expectations for Christmas, even those of us who claim we don’t care about it. For my mom, those expectations run deep. She grew up in a devout Mormon family but has had no contact with most of them since she left the church decades ago.

She broke away in the 70s—actually, even earlier than that—and found her own path, diving into angels, tarot cards, and crystals.

Yet, if there’s one thing she’s held onto from her old life, it’s Christmas.

It’s not about the material aspects for her; it’s more about tradition, about creating this perfect, harmonious picture of family togetherness. She’s always been this way. Even when we lived in Scotland during her marriage to my dad, she insisted on making Christmas a little more American, fussing over details to get it “just right.”

This year, though, her vision of Christmas hit a snag—my youngest, Michael, my sweet, autistic little boy, started taking decorations off the tree.

He replaced the globes and angels with the empty Lego boxes from his presents, stuffing them between the branches like ornaments.

At first, I thought my mom was going to have a second family anxiety attack of the evening. She didn’t yell exactly—she’s gotten better at controlling her temper over the years—but she definitely lost it.

“No, Michael, you can’t do that. What are you doing? Carrie, tell him to stop!”

Suddenly, all eyes were on me. Why is it always me? Why am I the one who has to call the shots, to save everything from falling off the precipice?

Michael didn’t notice the tension. He just kept humming, oblivious, as he carefully removed stars and baubles to make room for his Lego boxes.

This wasn’t new behavior. He spent the summer stuffing bushes in our garden with boxes, and after a while, we let him. The bushes weren’t anything special, and it gave him an hour or two of peace—and gave us a break.

But this wasn’t the garden.

This was Christmas, and we’d worked so hard to make it perfect.

I knew my mom’s frustration wasn’t really about Michael. It was about what his actions symbolized: the breaking of her fragile, idealized vision of Christmas.

She had already had enough adjustment with some of the regular changes, like unpacking the children’s presents in the evening, and my rotating schedule for who is in the living room for how long in order not to stress out Michael.

I also knew what would happen if I tried to stop him. Michael doesn’t understand bribes or bargains. He doesn’t eat candy. I couldn’t promise him something better in exchange for leaving the tree alone.

The only option was to raise my voice, take the boxes away, and watch him fall apart. The screaming, the tears—it would shatter the fragile peace we’d worked so hard to maintain.

“Let him,” I said.

My mom started to argue, but I could see she was holding back, trying to stay composed. Everyone else stayed silent, watching the standoff between us unfold like a slow-motion car crash.

Michael, completely unaware, took another box and nestled it into the tree.

Then, my dad cleared his throat. “Maybe just let the lad do what he wants. It is Nollaig, after all.”

That was my dad’s gift.

My mom paused, biting back whatever she wanted to say. She looked at my dad—her ex-husband—and I saw twenty years of unspoken things pass between them. She relented, and the moment passed.

We all drifted back to our chairs, quietly sipping our drinks as Michael continued decorating the tree in his own way. It wasn’t what any of us expected, but in its own way, it was perfect.

Finally, my stepfather broke the silence. He turned to my dad, who hadn’t met his eyes all evening, and said, “I think that was the best gift we could give the boy.”

He used ‘we’ intentionally, even though my dad had been the one to step in. And I appreciated him for it.

Sometimes, the right words come at the right time, even if they’re rare.

And maybe that’s what Christmas is about—those moments when we get it right, when we manage to hold it all together, just for a little while.

God bless.

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87B – 271224

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Cover photo by Markus Siske, Unsplash

Another unique X-mas tree – photo by the author

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Melody: Jesus Once Was A Child

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He played as little children play

The pleasant games of youth;

But he never got vexed if the game went wrong,

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