By Kristen M. Scott
When she was five years old my daughter discovered my stash of Christmas supplies hidden under the basement stairs. I found her peering in wonder at the hoard I’d thought so artfully concealed.
“Mommy, you are so lucky!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “You have the same wrapping paper as Santa!”
I dodged a bullet on that one. Years passed before Natalie learned the truth behind my good fortune, that the magic of the season has less to do with a mythical gift-bearer than the bonds we’d form together.
Which isn’t to say our lives unfolded in the way I had intended. Everything changed when my son was diagnosed with autism, when he was two years old and Natalie was four. Stunned and appalled by the verdict on Daniel’s future, I was yet naive enough to ponder, “I wonder if this will affect Natalie?”
My question, of course, should have been, “How will this not affect Natalie?”
So many of our family’s actions were subsequently dictated by Daniel’s needs, abilities and moods, especially as he grew and his behavior became more erratic. A thousand compromises eroded the childhood I’d imagined for them, as family experiences often dissolved into strained, anxiety-ridden endeavors to be survived rather than savored. As much as we treasured our son and his quirky relationship with the world, he turned our world upside down. And despite my best efforts to balance the needs of both my children, Natalie’s preferences were often shunted by the enormous demands of Daniel’s disability.
The holiday season in particular, with its relentless expectations, rarely panned out as planned. Indeed, several years after finding my yuletide cache under the basement stairs, Natalie faced her first Christmas Eve without her dad, as her father and I had separated several months earlier. Even worse, Daniel chose the moment we were leaving to attend church with my parents to vomit on the kitchen floor. A year awash in despair had reached a new low.
Yet that Christmas Eve was also a turning point. By the light of the Christmas tree, our new family unit of three read The Night Before Christmas, Natalie waiting patiently while Daniel tapped each illustration with his finger three times before we turned the book’s pages. She helped her brother choose the perfect cookie for Santa, and the three of us cuddled together for bedtime prayers. In the glow of the nightlight Natalie’s eyes shone with the promise of the morning to come, her belief in the world still intact, despite its many challenges, despite the heartbreak she’d experienced so recently. She told me she loved me, as she has every day since. I made it through that bleak Christmas Eve, my daughter’s faith in the future, and in me, sustaining me.
Natalie is in her second year of graduate school at Northwestern now, studying to be a marriage and family therapist. She is considering a specialty in families with children of special needs. Whatever she chooses, I couldn’t be more proud of her.
She’ll have a break from classes soon, and come home from her apartment in Evanston to stay with us for a few days over Christmas. It’s the best part of the season for me now. We’ll spend hours in the kitchen, where she long ago surpassed me as a baker. While she bakes and I wrap packages, we’ll catch up on the details of our lives in a way that quick texts and snatched phone calls can never afford.
She’ll fill me in on Thanksgiving with her dad and stepmom, and what’s new with her siblings, their ten-year-old twins. She’ll share the challenges of student therapy, and her satisfaction in helping a troubled client. My husband will groan as we rehash the exploits of the real housewives, our quest for the perfect mascara, or the torment of walking in heels. He’ll listen again to our memories of my mom and dad, both gone now for many years.
We’ll talk about Daniel, and his transition this month from the residential school where he’s lived for six years, to a new, long-term living situation, a stage in his life I’ve worried about for 20 years. She’ll offer insights gained both from her clinical training and a lifetime of unconditional love for her brother. I know her presence will comfort and reassure me. She has walked this journey with me for years, as my daughter and now, suddenly, as an adult.
My friends tell me I have done something right to have raised such a remarkable girl, one with resilience, and compassion, and strength. But I think Natalie was right all those years ago. I’m lucky. I’m just so incredibly lucky to call this young woman my daughter.