(I wrote this in 2008 and a shorter version was published in Autism Ontario’s quarterly magazine. I think it stands the test of time and yes, although he is now much older, the Devon of the story still has his own tree in his room.)
Some time ago, in an uncharacteristic moment of parental competence, we bought two small artificial Christmas trees for the kids – one for Pearce, our late-teen daughter, and one for Devon, our early-teen son, who has an autism spectrum disorder. Our motivation wasn’t to preserve the Martha Stewart-like integrity of the family tree: it was more to distract the kids, particularly our son, in the relentless pre-Christmas season that begins, it seems, shortly after Labour Day.
December 1 is the absolutely earliest date on which the trees can be put up – and despite Devon’s passion for calendars, the count-down can be relentless. Finally the promised day arrives. As the fates would have it, December 1 shows up on a Saturday where my husband is working and Pearce urgently needs homework help. So I get her started on her essay outline, and bring up Devon’s tree and a small box of unbreakable ornaments. I set up the tree in his room upstairs, hand him the box of ornaments, and return to “Lord of the Flies” (the topic of my daughter’s essay).
Maybe five minutes later Devon comes thumping down the stairs – a kid who weighs less than the family dog, whose match-stick limbs are so pale he practically glows in the dark, he still manages to descend and ascend stairs with an impressive thumping. “More decorations” he declares (Devon never uses ten words if two will do). I give him a look, and he reluctantly expands his statement: “I want more decorations”. Leaving my patient daughter to her essay on bloodshed and societal breakdown, I head to the basement again, this time with Devon on my heels. We locate another container of unbreakable ornaments and he heads upstairs to his room with them.
Five minutes later he is back again – this time he doesn’t bother asking but heads straight to the basement. I’m engrossed in the discussion about beast imagery in the classic novel, but not too engrossed to notice what he retrieves – several shiny silver-coloured shower curtain hooks, and a bar of soap. “What are you going to do with that bar of soap?” I ask. “My tree” is the reasonable, if brief, response. “You’re going to put a bar of soap on your tree?” I ask, my voice full of skepticism. He brushes by me and tromps up the stairs again, chanting “bar of soap”, “bar of soap”, “bar of soap” as he goes. Maybe three minutes later he’s down again. “I put the bar of soap behind the tree” he explains, and heads to the basement. The next time he passes us, he’s carrying a feather boa (from a Hallowe’en box, doesn’t everyone have one lying around the house?).
Finally, on yet another trip basement-wise, I intercept him – the basement has lots of stuff in it, and someone who can see the decorating potential of a bar of soap clearly has a mind that is rather too open to possibilities. Plus the tree is very small, far too small for the volume of decorations that have made their way up to his room. “You could,” I tell him, “take the decorations off and start over.” “Start over?” he asks. “Sure,” I say, “take the decorations off, then put them back on again”. And so he happily heads upstairs again to redecorate the tree. And we try to get back to Lord of the Flies.
Once the essay is under control comes a trip to the dollar store to pick up, you guessed it, more decorations. He picks a star for the top of his tree, assorted garlands, more candy canes, and, in a moment of weakness, I let him buy a package of tinsel. His tree becomes a silver fountain as he tosses the entire package at it (no cats in the house at this time).
The next day his sister is finally in the mood to put her tree up. She kindly allows him into the inner sanctum of her room, a thrilling treat for him. He helps her decorate, handing her the delicate glass decorations she chose last year. He offers one of the candy canes from his tree and is thrilled when she accepts. Finally, her tree is done - a masterpiece of restraint and balance, delicate and lovely, and utterly colour-coordinated. His is a masterpiece of chaos, completely overloaded on one side and bare on the other, with a dozen candy canes bending down a single pathetic artificial branch. Her tree is topped with an angel. His tree is topped with a star. Oops. He wants a “snow angel” like Pearce. It’s late, I’m tired, I tell him we’ll get one later. The next morning the first words out of his mouth are “I want to get a snow angel like Pearce” and, in time, he acquires his own angel to top his tree.
And so each night in December my darling children sleep close to their very own trees. My daughter dreams teenage girl dreams, full of angst and indescribable longings, beside a tree that shimmers with mauve and pink and silver and a tasteful touch of tinsel. My son dreams the dreams of a child whose brain is wired differently, confusion and worry mixed with wonder, beside a tree that would groan, if artificial trees could do such a thing, under the weight of all those ornaments. It comes to me that my daughter’s tree is very selective and deliberate – each ornament chosen specifically, to match some unstated but precise criteria and vision. My son’s tree is all-encompassing – no decoration is rejected as inadequate or inappropriate, all are welcome. I resist the urge to “fix” his tree, to balance it out, to remove the less acceptable items (OK, I confess, I took the bar of soap – we needed it). This is a tree that, likes its decorator, teaches and challenges at the same time, with a strange but fascinating beauty all its own.
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