You can't always get what you want

It's that time of year again, when the newspapers (Ooops! I meant Web sites! Everyone knows newspapers are, as Jon Stewart says, "Black and white and totally over.") are filled with tales of families struggling with how to tell children that Santa might not be able to make a visit this year.

As a mother, these stories tug at my heartstrings (yes, despite my cynicism in many areas of life, I do have heartstrings capable of being tugged). And this year, of course, there are more such stories than usual. But sometimes, those stories aren't quite as sad as they seem at first glance.

Take our house, for example. In a miracle that makes the Chanukah oil thing look like child's play, it turns out that both Jeff and I still have jobs, at least for the time being. So Santa will indeed be visiting this year (how about THAT for a multicultural paragraph? If only I could figure out a way to work in references to Kwanzaa, Diwili and Ramadan ...).

However, like many children who are far less fortunate than him, Elijah will NOT be getting the gifts dearest to his heart. This is not because Santa is being Scrooge-y this year, but because Elijah's requests for the Jolly Old Elf are -- how shall I put this? -- absurd.

There was a time, as recently as a year ago, when I thought Elijah would never understand the Santa concept. Kids with autism are very literal and generally do not have great imaginations, so abstract concepts are lost on them. Whether it's God or the Tooth Fairy or Santa, if they can't see it, it doesn't exist. So after about three or four years of trying to get Elijah excited about Christmas and reindeer and gifts and such, I had pretty much given up.

You've probably guessed the flaw in my thinking: Of COURSE you can see Santa! He's right here, in the newspaper ad (I mean, on the Web), on television, at the mall, etc. And finally, Elijah has taken notice:

"Santa can bring a basketball goal!"

I groan, having long ago grown weary of his obsession with basketball goals. It began when he was barely a year old, and it took us six months to figure out that "ba-ba cone" meant "basketball goal." By age 3, he had counted the 22 (he was an unusually early counter) basketball goals on driveways between our house and preschool. By 4, he was drawing pictures of them day in and day out. Even pictures of other subjects nearly always included a basketball goal (that's it right there, weaving its way up between the two figures on the right):




And by 5, he was pointing out the various styles and colors of backboards, nets, poles, brackets and countless accessories that I never knew existed.

Mind you, he does not play basketball. Has no interest whatsoever in it (or any other sport). He'll watch basketball on TV, but only because he's waiting for those glorious closeups of the ball going into (his heart flutters!) THE GOAL!

So his request to Santa was not altogether unexpected. Of course, he already has several of the coveted objects -- two of the little door-hanging kind that he has dragged around the house (even to bed) until they've fallen apart, plus a plastic adjustable outdoor one.

But is this enough? No! My little boy, who I never thought would "get" Christmas or Santa, wants more (after all, what is Santa really about, if not... "more"?). At last count we were up to "Santa can bring EIGHT basketball goals! Santa can bring eight BIG basketball goals! Black and red ones! And brown." And, lest I try to pull the "where would Santa get them?" routine: "Santa can get them at Target!"

This is the problem with kids who think literally. That elf-staffed toy factory at the North Pole doesn't seize their imaginations nearly to the extent that Target does. Or Dick's Sporting Goods, where great big black-and-red basketball goals can be had for a mere $500 each.

So I explain to Elijah that no, Santa is not going to bring $4,000 worth of basketball goals to a little boy who flatly refuses to play basketball. Undauted, he writes the following:

So, here we are, a week before Christmas, a pile of toys in an upstairs closet waiting to be wrapped, with the probability of a very disappointed little boy on Christmas morning. As I have attempted to explain to Jeff, this is one of those Important Life Lessons that his generation knows as the lyrics to a Rolling Stones song.

Meanwhile, I try to remember the lesson in those lyrics when I think back to Elijah's comment after I explained the situation involving the cost of EIGHT basketball goals:

"Mom and Dad need to get some MONEY!"