A fourteen-hour glimpse into the holidays with an autistic child:
Wednesday December 21, 2016:
3:00 p.m.—Grayson gets into the car with an fantastic bag of Christmas goodies from his teacher and immediately gives everything to his sister because “it’s all stupid…”
3:01 p.m.—…then quickly takes it back because “it’s actually pretty cool.”
5:30-5:45 p.m.—It’s time for Grayson’s rapid-fire questions: What time we will have to leave to get to church? How long church will last? How long it will take to get to Gramma and Grampa’s house for dinner? Will we eat or open presents first? Will we open all the presents at once or one at a time? Can he open his Christmas presents alone in a separate room instead of with everyone else? How we will get all the Christmas presents back to our house? Etc…etc…etc…
8:30 p.m.—Grayson is allowed to open one early present after asking a mere 50 billion times. He barely glances at the half-spherical soccer ball that lights up and gives the appearance of floating (which I felt confident he’d enjoy), then puckers his face and throws the ball to the ground three times, all while jumping up and down, crying hysterically, and raging about how stupid it is. Meanwhile, I’m trying to hush the muffled laughter of four other children so things don’t entirely explode.
8:31-9:00 p.m.—After going down to his bedroom to cool off, then returning several times, Grayson eventually agrees to practice the correct way of graciously opening an undesirable present and keeping unkind thoughts “in your brain.” Upon the conclusion of our practice session, he promises that next time, he will wait until he’s calm before telling the gift-giver that they didn’t select a good present. Sigh. I give him an “A” for effort, while simultaneously trying to keep both my exasperation and laughter “in my brain.”
9:02 p.m.—Grayson is now fighting with his sister over who gets to play with the awesome floating soccer ball and trying to think of a good place to hide it so no one can steal it while he sleeps.
9:15 p.m.—Although he’s supposed to be in bed, Grayson decides to move all of his presents down to his room so that he can open them alone in the dark peace and quiet…
9:16 p.m.—…then promptly decides that upstairs is actually a better place, and returns all his presents to their spot under the tree.
9:45 p.m.—He’s sleeping! My husband and I giggle and plan next year’s holiday game—everyone has to act like Grayson upon opening their worst present. Grayson unwrapping “bad” gifts is quickly becoming an annual Hatfield Christmas tradition, which, with much practice, we are humorously learning to cherish.
9:50 p.m.—I’m labeling Grayson’s presents from #1-7—worst to best—so he’ll have an idea of what to expect. Present #1 is his “practice present;” it’s a jar of pickles.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
5:33 a.m.—I am awakened to thunderous footsteps tearing through the house and a breathless Grayson excitedly informing me he opened another present but don’t worry it was an electric toothbrush that clearly wasn’t for him because it was dumb. (It was for him). I tell him I don’t care if he opens all of his presents as long as he leaves me alone and lets me sleep.
5:34 a.m.—He’s back to tell me that he won’t open any more presents and maybe I should hide them—just in case. I instruct him in the most patient voice I can muster to “get out and don’t come back.”
5:35 a.m.—Grayson is back. Again. He wants to know what he should do with the toothbrush. I’m crawling out of bed, as I can see this sleeping thing is clearly not on Grayson’s agenda for my day.
5:36 a.m.—I’m (literally) stumbling to the coffee maker, trying to explain my disappointment. “I like to watch you open presents. Daddy is still away for work. I’m going to have to keep all your presents in my room so you don’t open any more of them before Christmas.” Grayson looks at me, his eyes filling with tears, and explains in a cracking voice, “I just wanted to practice so I could do a better job unwrapping my presents.”
5:37 a.m.—All my irritability and weariness instanly evaporate. I shut my mouth, stop explaining, and start listening. As hard as life feels for me, it’s harder for him. Hugging him, I say, “Good job, buddy. I’m proud of you.”
My Christmas gift came early this year—a healthy dose of humility and a gentle reminder to slow down and sit with Grayson in his world.
