ninanevermore

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the fact that I have finally figured out why my two-year-old son has been acting out so much these past couple of weeks. After several months on the wagon for cannibalism, where he had given up his compulsion to sink his teeth into human flesh, he has relapsed. I ounce again find myself signing "Incident Reports" when I pick him up from daycare. On four occasions in the past two weeks, my son has taken out his frustrations on the skin of his little classmates, who either had the audacity to try to take a toy away from him, or to be playing with a toy that he wanted to take away from them.

"He's just been different lately,” his teacher told me, "He pushes. He throws things. He won't help pick up toys. He's never been like that before. Sometimes kids sense when there is a problem at home and act out here. I was just wondering, is there anything going on at home?"

I told her that home is no more chaotic than usual. His father and I get along fine, and there have been no change in our routine. I had no idea what might be affecting my son so much.

Eventually, it clicked. Something did change 2 and a half weeks ago: Christmas went away.

I am one of those people who leaves my decorations and lights up until January 7th, the day after Epiphany (Three Kings Day) and the official end of the Christmas season. I have a few reasons for this, including my love of the fine art of procrastination (which I am very good at) and that I will latch on to any excuse to postpone putting away all of that stuff that I worked so hard to drag out of the attic in the first place. Since I can leave my decorations up through the first week of January, I do. This year, I had a third reason: my son had fallen in love with Christmas, and I wanted to let him keep it as long as possible, but not so long that the neighbors would say snarky things about me.

My son's love of Christmas is in his DNA; he gets it from his father. My antisocial, misanthropic husband - a man who does not generally cotton to sending out tidings of good cheer - adores Christmas more than any adult I have ever met. When it comes to lights, tinsel and carols, Jeff is convinced that more is always merrier. It's the one time of year that he and I switch roles: I become stressed and pensive, and Jeff becomes incredibly, irritatingly cheerful.

But back to our son. From late November, when Christmas lights first began appearing on houses, to January 6th, when I stopped turning on the lights on our house, my son was enchanted by them.

"Lights!" he would say, pointing them and smiling, his face as bright as the colored lights themselves, "Lights!"

The Christmas tree in our living room was a treasure trove of delights, covered not only with bright lights and shiny garlands, but a hundred tiny wonders for him to marvel at. Its green boughs were adorned with bells that chimed when he touched the branches, miniature teddy bears, Santa Clauses, candy canes, and lots and lots of small airplanes. Jeff is an aviation buff, and many of our ornaments are aviation themed. I don't think airplanes are particularly Christmassy, but Jeff disagrees.

The tree lights were controlled by a switch consisting of a green box with a round red button designed to be stepped on. My son quickly learned how to run behind the tree and stomp on the switch until the tree lit up in all its bright splendor.

He also adored the music box train that plays both Christmas carols and railroad songs (Chattanooga Choo-Choo, etc.) while its wheels turn, its smokestack blows smoke, its whistle whistles, and little elves shovel coal (Santa is the engineer, and the elves do the grunt work). My son would watched this music box with glee, nodding his head and dancing to the music.

Then, without any warning (as far as my son was concerned), on Sunday, January 7th, I packed up the train and took the treasures off on the tree. I left the lights on it for Jeff to take care of, which he did the next day. When I pulled into the driveway that Monday evening, with my son in the backseat, for the first time in a month there were no strings of lights on our house, and no Lawnora Borealis in the trees.

"Lights?" I heard a forlorn voice ask from behind me.

The real shock came when we walked in the front door and the Christmas tree was gone, as if it had never been there at all. My son's face was stunned.

"Where lights?" he asked, his palms turned upward, his eyes dismayed.

"They're gone," I told him, "We'll put them up again next year."

He was silent, and I though no more about it. I figured he would adjust.

But I was too nonchalant. What does "next year" mean to a 2 year old? Last Christmas was half his lifetime ago, and next Christmas is an eternity away. Christmas is gone, and it may as well be gone forever. The lights on the house and the wonders on the tree, not to mention the train that played music, were little bits of magic in his world that evaporated without a trace.

The next day, he bit two classmates. He was angry, and the everyone would pay. Next year means nothing to him; a two year old lives in the moment, and the moment no longer has any Christmas in it. What's the point of being good? What does it all matter, when they can take Christmas away and pack it into boxes?

I realize that my son is in mourning, and I must acknowledge my role as a Grinch who stole his Christmas. Like the storybook Grinch, I will eventually bring Christmas back, but it will be an forever until then. I've advised his teacher to let him keep his pacifier with him for the time being, to bite on as he sees fit. Better he sink his teeth into that than the little boy whose mother has recently stopped making eye contact with me.*

Christmas was my son's first love. It swept into his world and made everything bright and gleaming, only to leave without saying goodbye. His heart is broken and he's upset.

Perhaps I should put up one small string of lights, maybe on a houseplant, to help him keep in touch with lost love, to give him hope that Christmas will return. Maybe he just needs something for him to point at and say, "Lights!" one more time. What would it really hurt for me to keep a little piece of Christmas around, for old times sake?

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*She's not supposed to know who the biter is, but then I'm not supposed to know who the victim is, either. These things have a way of getting out.