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IN MY MOTHER'S HOUSE sits a framed picture I try to avoid. It's just a little photo in a silver frame, a photo of my mother and me, my two sons and Santa Claus.
Who could hate a picture of Santa? In the photo, my oldest son, who was 2 or 3 at the time, is crying and looking like he was in the middle of a torture session. The younger son is squirming in his haste to break away from the mall Santa.
But the worst face belongs to Santa himself. The jolly old man looks, well, anything but jolly. His eyes seem to be crying out for help, to be rescued or just put out of his misery.
Just looking at that photo brings back bad memories. My mother--who can remember when I also considered being forced to sit upon that large, red lap to be exquisite torture--just laughs at the photo.
The picture, for a long time, just reminded me of all the things I would never have. Sometime about the time of the disastrous visit to St. Nick, I had learned both of my sons were autistic.
Standing in line at the mall, I saw all the other children dressed in their holiday best bringing long lists of Christmas wishes and smiling prettily for Santa.
I overheard other parents complain about the long lists and messed-up hairdos. I would have given anything to be those parents.
Returning to my childhood belief in magic, I hoped that somehow Santa might have the magic balm to make it all better. I knew he couldn't cure autism or anything like that, but a whispered kind word, even a jolly wink, could have made me feel better.
But Santa made it clear he could barely tolerate my children, that if he had his way, kids like mine would be banned from his lap.
Another mall Santa also lacked compassion for children with disabilities. When my son's special education preschool class took a field trip to the mall, Santa could be heard lamenting that no one warned him that kids "like that" would be coming.
I thought I had outgrown my childhood distaste for the man in red. But it came back with a fervor my childhood self could not have dreamed of.
It endured until last year, when my younger son became one of those kids with a long list for Santa. He overcame his fears and sat on the lap and smiled for a photo. I decided to call a truce.
But Santa had yet to pass the real test. Sitting there with his Christmas list and holiday sweater, my younger son appeared like any other child. Handing Ben a candy cane and promising to think about bringing him a new train set didn't require too much stamina.
I brought both of my sons to the mall on a quest for sneakers the week before Thanksgiving. Santa sat alone on his chair, with no line of children clamoring for his attention.
There was no way I was going near him. My two sons together can try the patience of a saint. And I'd already learned that St. Nick was not all that saintly.
But Xander, my oldest, had other ideas. This kid (whose past stranger anxiety included even those whose faces weren't hidden by white hair and a red hat) ran up to the old man willingly. In fact, I couldn't stop him.
He sat himself down at Santa's feet and began to play. I waited for him to be shooed away, in case a "normal" kid should come.
But Santa sat there and played with my son, tickling and teasing him, as I looked on in amazement.
To Santa, the episode was probably just a simple five-minute visit. To Xander and his mom, it was a Christmas miracle.
Raymond Edwards, who has played Santa at the Spotsylvania Mall for two years, said most Santas sign up for mall duty because they love children.
Edwards is one of those Santas. He loves "the kids, the things they say, the trust, the twinkle in their eyes when they see Santa."
"I thoroughly enjoy it," he said. "You see their eyes light up, and that makes it all worthwhile."
But Edwards cautions those Santas who don't share his love for the kids.
"If you're not doing it for the right reasons, don't do it," he said about being a mall Santa. "'Cause the kids'll know it."
To reach AMY FLOWERS UMBLE: 540/374-5000, ext. 5764 aumble@freelancestar.com