The day Christmas was cancelled.

It happened over ten years ago, yet I still feel guilty. If I go search for the pictures I can probably tell you the exact date of the incident. On Christmas eve we had done the family thing sharing with my sister, an uncle and his family, and a few other friends that at the time still lived here in California. In those days they either still pretended to believe, or actually did believe in the fat jolly guy, so by the time everyone went home it was already close to midnight and it was not too hard to convince my two sons to get to bed so that Santa could deliver presents. By the time my then wife and I had finished cleaning up the place the clock had already raced to past 1:30 a.m. and it was safe to bring out all the presents for wrapping. I am not sure how I got the job, but once I did it the first time, it was then mine for the rest of their childhood years. One after another she would go to each of the hiding places around the house and bring me what then did not seem like enough, yet now seems like an excess of toys for me to gift wrap. It was typically around 3:00 a.m. when I would be done with the paper, tape, ribbons, bows, and scissor job and the final task of placing the presents under the beautifully decorated Christmas tree. There would be two mountains of gifts, and a sheet of paper with each of my boy's name taped to the highest one on the pile. Finally, somewhere close to 3:30 a.m. I would crash on my bed with the satisfaction that I had done an excellent good job in the previous three weeks finding all the elusive games and toys that each of my boys had written down on their Santa wish lists.

Even though I had managed to get at least four hours of sleep, it never felt like I had closed my eyes for more than five minutes when one of my two sons would climb into my bed to shake me up and let me know that Santa had arrived as promised. Eyes half closed I would encourage him to wake up his brother so that they could both open their presents at the same time. I don't think that I can remember seeing them any happier at any other time of year. Christmas morning was the pinnacle of joy in their lives, the most anticipated and cherished day of the year. All four of us would go downstairs, mom and dad only half asleep, the boys only half awake, but all of us together experienced the excitement of that most special moment. One by one they would tear apart the paper that the fake Santa had so carefully wrapped around each present. Their eyes would gleam of excitement and joy at the emergence of each of their desires coming true. Our hearts filling with the warm emotional gratification that all parents experience from the knowledge that we still possessed such an amazing power over the happiness of our children.

However, this Christmas morning was destined to be different. When the last present was opened my older son realized that he had received one less present than his brother. A count? The boy had actually kept a count of how many each had opened? I suddenly became petrified by the impact that this deficit was causing to his emotional state. He started to complain in a demanding manner that the situation needed to be rectified, that the injustice had to be fixed immediately! I found myself baffled and confused, but more than anything I found myself hurt by this incredible moment of ungratefulness. I did the count, and sure enough the younger guy had received twelve presents, and the older one only eleven. But what did it matter? Why would one less present have such a negative effect on his Christmas happiness? After hearing him complain and demand I suddenly found myself in a fit of anger. No more than fifteen minutes after we had experienced one of the most joyful moments we had ever had together, there I was so mad at my oldest son that I took everything away from him, sent him to his room and declared that Christmas day was cancelled for him altogether. The pictures to follow that day have his face with an expression of sadness that I will never be able to get out of my mind. Even though the punishment only really lasted about an hour, surely less than two, by then the damage had been done and the rest of the day was just not the same or as it should of been.

At the time, probably like any other parent in this situation, I did not have a clue as to what was wrong with my child. In my mind, even though I knew that he had problems, I too believed that discipline was the biggest issue and not a medical condition. My heart still hurts when I remember that day because I now know that I should of been more patient. Think about it...I cancelled Christmas! Jesus, what an idiot idea on my part! What he needed at that moment was reassurance that he held the exact same value as his brother did and there were many ways that I could of done that without making the situation such a big deal. I did not understand his compulsions, his obsessions, his way of processing all the things that I take for granted because my mind is wired like most others are too, but his is not. It does not matter what anyone has ever told me about this moment, I have never been able to shake the guilt from knowing the mistakes I made that day.

I think that this guilt I feel is actually healthy. I need to once in a while fall flat on my ass and recognize that I make many mistakes too. Of course, as I have told you before, I value these lessons because they make me a better father and hopefully a better man in time. I am humbled by the fact that a man with a college education can still manage to make all the wrong decisions with some of the simplest things in life out of ignorance. I remember once, when I had only been doing my job as an engineer for a few years, having to tell the CEO of a very large defense contractor that his position description was in error and one of his duties needed to be corrected. He saw my rookie face and immediately went on to tell me that he had being doing his job for over twenty five years, and who was I to tell him that it was wrong? I simply answered in a very serious yet sure of myself tone "Yes, you are right about everything you just said except for one thing...you have been doing your job wrong for twenty five years!" Believe it or not, his job description was changed in the following week to correct the original mistake. The point is that it does not matter how long we have been doing anything in life, there is still a good chance that some of it might be wrong. As a parent, I had only been on the job about seven years at the time, which now seems like a very short time compared to my seventeen and counting that I currently hold with my kids.

I am proud to say that I have learned to never cancel Christmas with my children regardless of how good or bad they behave on Christmas Day. I never again made the mistake of allowing either one of the boys to perceive that there could be any favoritism between them because even if it is not done on purpose, it is just wrong. I have made a very large effort to ensure that they both get the same number of hugs, kisses, compliments, and yes, even Christmas presents regardless of our circumstances or their behaviour. Love is given, never demanded in our family. Even after going through a divorce, I still contact my ex-wife to find out what she plans on giving the boys for Christmas and make sure we are both being fair and even handed with them. In fact, I also make sure that they never forget to buy their mother a present for her birthday, Mother's Day, and Christmas, which typically means I have to fork out some of the money. Tell me, how else are they to learn to treat the people that love them with respect if I do not set an example for them? My responsibility as a father cannot be any less because of the broken household, on the contrary, I feel the need to be if not just as, then even more consistent in my role as dad. This is no easy task, since I am sure you can appreciate that the reason one gets a divorce is typically to get away from your spouse, but in my mind it should never justify getting away from my children. These two "monkey heads" as I sometimes call them, are "my monkey heads."

Dad