Sunday, January 1, 2012

I Believe

There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child. - Erma Bombeck


In the dark of a December night, the silhouette of three figures backlit by the porchlight is part of the unvarying landscape of Christmas Eve. If someone were to amble by, from their vantage point in the road they would just be able to make out the two taller figures helping the other to toss a mixture of oats and glitter out onto sleeping winter grass. There are reindeer to first, be guided here by the concentrated glimmer in the yard, and then fed once they land. The three stand huddled together, shivering but unfalteringly bent on completing their mission. Flakes the size of half dollars drifting down or an already hard, snowy ground, bitter chill or unseasonable warmth, the occasional moonless night or a waxing gibbous moon, are the only variations. While the weather may differ the ceremony is the same year to year. The taller ones laugh as their brother takes a handful of oats from a small plastic bag and throws it overhand, where it lands just short of the grass. They move as a unit further into the yard and toss small piles until the bag is empty. They're having fun, and the one is reluctant to come in, reveling in the attention of his siblings, and saddened at the too-short duration of the tradition of so many years.

Although Max and Olivia have long outgrown their belief in Santa Claus,  Cliff persists, mostly because we haven't told him any different. It just never seemed necessary. There are two schools of thought on this subject. The first is the one we've maintained since he could understand the concept of gifts appearing out of nowhere, from a big-bellied grandfatherly guy with a beautiful, snow white beard. Before he goes to sleep on Christmas Eve, we still read books with red-hatted animals gathered in friendship around a tree, or children gazing into toy store windows on the cover. We still sing most of the 12 Days of Christmas, and he still looks about to burst when I tell him Santa is coming to leave him presents.

Then there are those who believe it's disingenuous for a grown man not to know the truth. They think it's somehow offensive, and makes him look, well, developmentally disabled! At the core of it is that it might somehow reflect badly on what the world thinks of their sons and daughters with Down syndrome. That perhaps they will forever be looked at as children, no matter what their age. (Of course they are not children forever and should never be treated as such) But, and here's a fact you may not know, each person with Down syndrome is an individual. Each has his or her own personality, quirks, likes and dislikes, beliefs and preferences, abilities or lack thereof. I don't believe I'm treating my son like a child because we allow his fantasy of Santa Claus. He's a young man with childlike qualities. That's one of his quirks. We should all be so lucky.

The sameness of Christmas Eve extends to Christmas day, during which Cliff opens presents perched cross-legged on the couch as we hand them to him. He can't read his name on the gifts, requiring each of us to search and deliver a couple at a time. It's really terrible how spoiled he is. The gifts are the things he gets every year, just updated versions of them. A new Koosh ball, DVDs, shirts and sneakers, books, a photograph album, the newest communication device intended for folks who are mostly non-verbal.

The gifts opened, breakfast ensues with his usual eggs, fruit and one mini-coffeecake. He dresses and waits for the rest of us to begin the trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house three hours away.
On the way out the door, he throws his arm around my shoulders and pretends to scare me. "Boo!"
"Ahhh! You scared me!" I exclaim, feigning fright. He laughs and then it's my turn.

To the few who disapprove, I say you have to meet people where they are. It's necessary to accept what is, instead of forcing someone to be a version of himself that isn't true.

The familiarity of these hours together, the sweetness of an innocent fantasy we hope will never end--it is most precious. He still believes so that the rest of us can believe too.

God bless and Happy New Year.

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