Well, imagine that....

We put up the tree today. My husband and I did most of the work, unwrapping each ornament and finding the perfect place for it on the tree. We've had this tradition for the last 14 Christmases - a tradition started by my mom - to get a new ornament that represents our year somehow. Most are those ones you can get at a kiosk in the mall, with all of our names on written on them. There's one from 1994, our first Christmas married. It says, "Our First Christmas Together," which is kind of funny to us now because we weren't physically together that year. That was the year he was stationed in Panama and the Army wouldn't let families come visit. Instead, I spent the year at my parent's with my family. It was nice, hanging out with my grandparents. My grandma told stories of her childhood. It ended up being her last Christmas and as much as I missed my husband that year, I am forever thankful I had that time with my grandma.

1998 has three names: mine, my husband's and our little dog, Cooper. 2000 has four: mine, my husband's, Coop's and our second dog, Cody. 2001's ornament has one more name, our oldest son's. Look at 2003's ornament and you'll find our second son's. Last year had seven names (we had three dogs then) and this year's will have eight (yes, another dog). There are also ornaments to mark each son's first Christmas and my first year of teaching.

There is one that always goes up at the top in the center - the ornament that was on the "Tree of Angels" at the hospital where my brother died. They sent it to my mom in January and she couldn't keep it, so I took it. I always cry when I hang it. I miss my brother more than usual this time of year. He loved the holidays. He was my only sibling and older than me and I know that when he died, many of my memories died with him.

There's another ornament that makes me cry, but not sad tears. It's a little snowman, with a hole in it's belly. It used to contain a picture of my second son that was taken a month after he was diagnosed with Autism. When I saw the picture of his stressed out little face and scared looking eyes, I cried hard, bitter tears. The preschool had sent it home as a gift, but the picture was just a horrible reminder that there was something terribly wrong with my precious baby boy. I took the picture out and put it on the top of the refrigerator where it would stay for the next six months. I went looking for it when the same preschool sent home my Mother's Day gift. This gift also had a picture of my boy. But, the picture was of a very different child. He was smiling and looking into the camera. He looked happy and relaxed. All because of taking gluten and casein out of his diet and giving him supplements to replace what he was missing. I know carry both pictures in my wallet and pull them out when I want to tell someone about biomedical treatments for Autism. When I want to convince someone that they do work, that they should try it. I hung that empty ornament this evening and cried because I do that when I can't contain the hope that lives in my heart. The hope that keeps me fighting Autism with everything that I've got. The hope that tells me that we are winning, that we are beating it.

When we finished trimming the tree and setting up our other decorations - all smiles because both our boys are really excited about the holiday this year - we snuggled on the couch and watched the Polar Express. Then, we turned off all the lights except for our decorations and just enjoyed each other's company.

I didn't notice until the boys were asleep and I was tidying up the house while my husband practiced his guitar that I didn't think about my parents and their Christmas tree fights. Not once.

Weird, huh? :)

Sunday Scribble - Tradition

Tradition is a hard word for me. Growing up the child of an alcoholic will do that do you. It brings up issues, shit that you have spent a lifetime pushing to the back of your mind...images you wish you could block out, spoken words you wish you didn't hear. Feelings of anger, resentment and regret that you've pretty much learned to control. Pretty much.

I'm in my 30's. This month my husband and I will celebrate our 15th anniversary. I have a college education, two beautiful children, and a big house. I work in a field I love. I've managed to put a half a continent between me and that little town I grew up in - where my father was a known drunk. Where my friends who worked at the pizza place downtown would see him staggering home.

Yet, every time I put up our Christmas tree, I think about a family tradition that my parents had. As my own husband - a good man- sets up the tree and strings the lights, as my boys go through the boxes and unwrap the ornaments - ooohing and ahhing- I think about how it went down in my parent's house. And, it makes me sad.

My father didn't have much interest in my mom, brother and me. He resented being asked to do things that would take him out of his chair in front of the tv and away from the forty ounce bottle of Oly. Every year, my mom would buy a tree and bring it home. She'd ask my dad to cut off the bottom and bring it in the house. He'd put it off until he was good and drunk - and he was a mean drunk - and then drag it in, swearing and muttering under his breath the whole time.

And they'd fight. They'd yell and then we'd decorate the tree without conversation, my father's tv show the only sound.

Every fucking year.

Until I left. I'm not sure how the holiday preparations went after that. I never asked.

I married young to a extraordinary man and we've built a good life together. Our boys see us fight, sure. But they will never see us drunk. They will never see us out of control. They will never be made to feel like they are a nuisance.

And, when they leave home and begin their own lives, come up with their own traditions, I pray that they will look back and remember. And smile.