I brought children into this dark world because it needed the light that only a child can bring.
~Liz Armbruster
It was clear from the moment I entered the toy store that I was a different kind of shopper. I was surrounded by people with lists — people who were on specific missions. I, on the other hand, had not a clue as what to buy. I had asked my son’s former home therapist to help me pick out a Hanukkah present for him and she had enthusiastically agreed.
I realize it sounds strange, requiring assistance in selecting a gift for my own child; but Josh is on the autism spectrum and doesn’t play with toys. Don’t get me wrong — he has interests. He loves swimming, reading books, music, Sesame Street and the Muppets. He adores being tickled, jumping in bouncy castles and going on amusement park rides. But board games, doctor’s kits, action figures… they’re not his thing. I’ve never had a problem buying books or DVDs that reflect his passions, but I buy those things all year long. I wanted to buy him a Hanukkah gift that would be special — something he would both enjoy and actively play with.
“What about this?” my shopping companion asked, holding up a box of plastic animals.
“Won’t work,” I responded. “Josh will either mouth them or bang them against the wall.” We passed the sporting goods section where I recalled buying many items for occupational and physical therapy: a deep pressure vest to help Josh feel physically grounded, a beanbag chair for flopping, and a trampoline for when he was feeling especially jumpy.
After rejecting toy cars, pretend kitchen paraphernalia and other items that had failed to capture Josh’s interest in therapy sessions, we settled on an oversized construction table that would fit in the corner of our living room. It came with large plastic bolts that fit in the table’s surface, a plastic hammer and saw, and sliding doors in which any extra equipment could fit.
I went home and wrapped it to the best of my abilities, which wasn’t saying much. Living with autism had made me a lot less focused on things like how a gift was presented. The important thing was to try out this gift. Even if Josh never played with that construction table he would remember that his father and I gave it to him. That had to count for something.
When my husband Aaron came home from work on the first night of Hanukkah we gave Josh his gift. Josh went over and examined it, feeling it out and banging his hammer. He then quickly gravitated toward the bubble wrap that had encased the table and proceeded to happily pop it with his hands and feet, giving himself the needed sensory input that so many on the autism spectrum crave. None of this surprised us; we knew our son well enough to know that this was a likely occurrence, and we accepted it. “At least we know he likes part of the gift,” we joked, making light of a situation that we knew bothered us deep down. As we had with other items we’d bought for Josh in the past, we decided to keep the construction table in its designated corner. We had previously bought Josh toys that he hadn’t shown interest in until months, even years later.
The days went by uneventfully. Holidays are often difficult and lonely for people with children on the spectrum, and we are no exception. Big parties can be overwhelming, often isolating us from family gatherings and public celebrations. We lit Hanukkah candles when Aaron got home from work while Josh was sleeping; we knew having an open flame would be a safety issue, and while it wasn’t how we wanted to approach the holiday, we understood it to be necessary. Later that week, however, my holiday observance took a wonderful turn.
I went to check my e-mail one day before Josh got home from school. In my Inbox was a message from one of the teachers at Josh’s school who runs the Jewish Affiliations Group. Since a formal Jewish education is impossible for Josh, this group gives children like him a chance to participate in activities and parties that mark the major holidays on the Jewish calendar. Most importantly, it creates an opportunity for these students to relate to a given holiday on a level that they can understand and enjoy, which makes the holiday experience at home far more inclusive than it would be otherwise. It meant the world to me.
I opened the message that read:
Josh had a great time at the Hanukkah party today! Here are some pictures of him playing Pin the Candle on the Menorah and decorating a dreidel! Happy Hanukkah!
I clicked on every photo attachment; each one was better than the next. In the first one Josh was holding a candle made of oak tag, smiling brightly. In the next he held that same candle up to an oversized oak tag menorah that hung on a bulletin board while carefully placing it into its designated slot. In another, he was intensely engaged in decorating a cardboard dreidel. It wasn’t just that he was celebrating Hanukkah that got to me — it was how utterly engaged he was. His expressions of delight and intense concentration in those photos overwhelmed me with joy; and his active participation in each activity translated through every image on my computer screen.
When Josh got home from school that day I gave him a huge hug and opened his backpack. Inside I found a tin menorah that he had painted in school. That evening, after sundown, I brought Josh to the window to light his creation and recited the accompanying blessings. It was the second blessing that deeply moved me: “Blessed are You, G-d, King of the universe, who has wrought miracles for our forefathers, in those days at this season.”
It had been quite a while since holiday rituals felt more than obligatory. At that moment my son was able to connect to Hanukkah in a jubilant, meaningful way. In my mind, that was a miracle that needed to be celebrated as well. As we watched the candles flicker in the darkness I looked down at Josh, kissed the top of his head and smiled. “Thank you,” I whispered, offering up a silent prayer of gratitude; for there was no better Hanukkah gift that any one of us could have asked for, let alone receive.
~Jennifer Berger
