Submitted by Nancy Bernotaitis - January 11, 2008

There are five stocking hanging from our mantle each year.  One for my husband, one for myself, and one for each of my three kids.  Several years ago, before Sam came along, I got creative and hand-decorated the kid's stockings, each with a photo of them sitting on Santa's lap.  One way I would occupy their boundless energy each year was to give them paper, glue, and catalogs with which they'd each make their lists for Santa.  Both photos show the kids, deep in explanation, showing Santa all 27 pages of their list.  Cute, right?  Except that when Sam came along, he wanted nothing to do with Santa.  Sam has Autism. 

Sam's first picture with Santa showed Santa with black eyebrows and a crooked beard holding a squirming, unhappy baby who obviously needed a diaper change.  Not quite "stocking" material.  A couple more years went by with similar results.  Sam was finally at the same age the other kids were on their stockings.  I had decided this would be the year of the perfect picture and I could finally finish the stocking and all this Santa business.  The pressure was on.

I dressed Sam in his holiday finest; a scratchy, uncomfortable ensemble that most kids tolerate for a brief period of time.  Unless they have Autism.  Undeterred, we headed off to the mall.  Mistake #1.  My older two kids were too old for all that Santa nonsense so they wandered nearby, pestered each other, and generally made a nuisance of themselves. 

After standing in line for 10 minutes, Sam was on the verge of a major meltdown.  I could sympathize as I was getting tired of standing there holding three winter coats, my purse, and an overstuffed diaper bag, myself.  I motioned for my older kids to come get money and buy Sam a cookie.  Buy me some time, I'm thinking.  Mistake #2.  There are always strings attached and I couldn't just buy Sam a cookie, I had to buy all three kids a cookie.  Fine!  So I gave them enough money for three outrageously expensive cookies and commanded them to HURRY!  By the time the cookie arrived, Sam was hanging on by his fingernails.  The sight of the cookie threw him right over the edge.  He unleashed the most blood-curdling scream he could muster and threw himself down on the ground right between the dancing elves and the animatronic reindeer.  

Everyone and everything in the mall, including the escalator, came to a screeching halt and everyone stared directly at me.  I felt this small.  If not for the screaming, which could have shattered glass, you could have heard a pin drop.  I felt my cheeks flush and broke out in a sweat. Yet I was in too deep to back out now.  We had overcome the stiff, itchy clothes and were halfway to Santa. I couldn't go forward, and I couldn't go back. I stood my ground.  I locked eyes with my older two kids who stood outside the pet store window, frozen with panic.  I smiled to let them know we weren't bailing just yet.  They turned back toward the window, happy that this time, their plans hadn't been interrupted.

As Sam's screaming began to die down, the mall began to go back to its business, and there I stood with a melting cookie in my hand; no trashcan in sight.  The line moved up a few steps closer to Santa.  Sam was still face down on the ground so I reshuffled my load, reached down with my empty hand and grabbed an ankle, dragging him along.  As I stood there sweating with a handful of melting dough and chocolate, I began to wonder who's stupid idea the stocking was, anyway.  'We don't need stockings! Or maybe I could just rip the photos of the other kids off their stockings.  Yeah!  Make them all match that way!'

I was jolted out of my daydream as the line moved ahead.  We were next!  Whew! Sam, tired of being dragged, was again on his feet, although his face was red and splotchy and he had snot and tears smeared across his cheeks.  I wiped his face with my coat sleeve.  Sam's attention had been momentarily captured by the cute little girl behind us who's shoes kept going clickety-clickety.  As he stared at her, thumb in his mouth, he didn't realize that the line had moved.   I took this moment to locate my other two kids who were obviously losing interest in their limited confines of the mall courtyard and were busy sptting straw paper spitwads at each other.  I felt guilty for always making them accomodate their brother and silently vowed to follow-through on the promise of lunch in the food court after we were done with Santa.  Mistake #3.

The next thing I know, the overly cheerful "helpful" elf was in my face rattling off photo prices, the benefits of discount packages, and asking for my credit card number.  I interrupted her to tell her that Sam was Autistic and that if she touched him, he would probably freak out. There had obviously been a shift change since Sam's tantrum and the present, because she gave me that "whatever" look that said "Relax, mom, I've "elfed" hundreds of kids" and a condescending smile.  She had no idea what was coming.  Against my explicit instructions, she grabbed Sam by the shoulders and spun him around, excitedly proclaiming that it was Sam's turn with Santa!  As soon as he saw the jolly fat man, he stiffened, then let loose with a sound that shouldn't come from a human.  Eyes bulged, ears bled, and I think Santa wet himself a little.  I dropped my armful of coats and bags, though I held onto the cookie because we had now become insepperable, and wedged myself between the stunned elf and Sam; the gleeful look wiped from her face.  

I hooked my cookie-free arm under his left arm, around his back, and under his right arm and summoned my super-human strength to lift him onto the little bench in front of the camera.  Santa sat paralyzed in the big chair behind the bench, unable to move, I assume because his pants were soiled.  I held my hand on Sam's chest and screamed "Take the damn picture!".  I had to scream over the noise, you see.  The elf snapped out of her stupor and clicked the button.  I released my grip and Sam popped up like there were springs in his butt, ready to bolt.  Luckily, there was nowhere to run as the "Santa" area is surrounded by fencing, fake snow, and scary-looking fairy-tale creatures.  The entrance line was thick with people and I had blocked the exit by extending my leg and putting my shoe through the fence.  He resorted to hanging on my leg and sobbing while I paid $10.00 for the $1.00 polaroid photo I didn't want.  I wasn't coming out of this empty-handed!

I must have looked quite discheveled as I escorted Sam from the Santa area.  It's a wonder my older kids even recognized me.  I certainly didn't look like the same woman that got in line 45 minutes prior.  I wasn't feeling like the same woman, either.  Gone was my positive, focus-driven tenacity.  In it's place was exhaustion, embarassment, and disappointment.  

As we breeched the second floor on the escalator, something snapped in Sam.  Perhaps the realization that we weren't in the parking lot.  Another wave of tantrum overcame him and his legs turned to noodles.  He collapsed on the floor about 2 feet from the escalator, kicking and screaming.  Something snapped in me, too, as I uncharacteristically, kept on walking.  I walked to the nearest table and chairs, probably no more than 15 feet from Sam, and sat down.   My daughter, Rachel, no older than 9 years-old at the time, became the voice of reason.  "Mom!  You can't just leave him there!".  "Sure I can.", I said.  "Look at him.  Nobody will steal him, carrying on like that."  I knew I should go get him but I just needed a moment to regroup.  I could see him.  He was safe.  

Then the most beautiful thing happened.  Rachel went over to Sam, bent down and took his hand, and helped him to his feet.  He let her.  They walked hand-in-hand to where I was sitting.  To others, I must have looked like the coldest mother on the planet, but inside my heart was warmed by her tender gesture. It was at that moment that I realized I don't have to be super mom.  Sometimes Sam will only respond to his siblings, and I need to let them help from time to time.

As I laid on the sofa with a cold towel on my face that afternoon, I remembered the polaroid shoved down in the diaper bag.  I pulled it out and had to laugh.  We'll probably never have a better picture of Sam's tonsils.  You know, I tried to forget that day for a while but I learned something I'll never forget.   Instead of answering my prayer for the perfect picture to complete my holiday decorations, God showed me the real meaning of Chistmas in the unselfish kindness of one small child to another. 

That stocking hung, blank, from our mantle for a couple more Christmases after that.  I had all but given up on getting a decent photo when, by sheer coincidence (or was it?), I looked up from our shopping cart at Meijer's one cold December day and who was walking directly toward our cart, but the most authentic looking Santa I have ever seen.  He walked right up to Sam and said hello, and he had such a calming demeanor that Sam simply sat and stared.  I explained quickly that Sam is Autistic and Santa just smiled and said "We'll be over by the snack bar if you want to come see us.".  I shrugged it off but went that direction on my way out anyway, for no apparent reason.  Surely there would be a line, and there's no way I'm visiting the ghost of Christmas past. 

To my complete amazement, there wasn't a line.  In fact, there wasn't anyone around except for Santa and his helper.  As if drawn by a supernatural force, I found myself removing Sam from the cart and walking toward Santa.  I, again, nervously explained that Sam has Autism and might get upset, but there was no need.  Sam not only approached Santa, but readily got up on the sofa next to him and sat for the photo.  They took two, as he was looking away in the first one, but only charged me $2.00 for them both.  Santa looked familiar, but it wasn't until after the pictures did I understand why.  His assistant handed me a brochure with my photos, introducing Santa as Santa-Ricky, the "TV" Santa that was in the Garth Brooks commercials!  The whole thing seemed surreal, and I had to keep looking at the photos on the way home to be sure it had really happened.  I had no doubt that I was being rewarded for my patience because God didn't just send any Santa, he sent a professional!

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