Free Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas by Jack Canfield

Of course, accessories were carefully coordinated— socks, hair bows, shoes, etc. I would stand by as she sat with Santa, checking for a strand of hair across her face, a wrinkle in her dress, or some other detail that might make the picture less than perfect.
    When my second child—a son—arrived, there was equal emphasis placed on his outfits, which had to be coordinated with my daughter in both color and style. Hats and caps became as important as hair bows and matching lace socks. Somehow, each time, I would leave the mall with picture in hand, knowing that despite the stress, I had captured the moment. How proud I was of these two little Christmas angels!
    My third child, a little boy with autism, had an aversion to Santa pictures from the very beginning. My first Santa picture with the three of them was only a glimpse of
    â€œChristmas Future.” Though he was less than eight months old at the time, and significantly behind in physical developmental milestones, he had managed (despite Santa’s best efforts to hold him) to avoid having his face in the picture. In the middle of a screaming rage, he had arched his back in such a way that his head was behind his body, and he was visible only from the waist down. I left the mall that day with a picture of Santa and two-and-a-half children.
    Things only went downhill from there. For the next several years, attempts were made to photograph Santa and my youngest son, but to no avail. He would have no part of it. Each year, I dressed him in adorable outfits and continued to try. The child in me would not give up on capturing some of that magic of the season for him. We were on our way home from a neurotherapy appointment on a cold November day, and here I was again, in front of the mall, looking at that “window of opportunity.” My older children were now too old for Santa pictures. I had a few minutes to spare. I looked at Paul in the backseat— evidence of lunch and snacks dominating what had started the day as a nice outfit. No matter, he always had spare clothes in his backpack.
    In the parking lot, in the biting wind, we stripped off the soiled shirt. When I reached into the backpack for the spare, I pulled out an orange T-shirt—not exactly Christmas picture attire. I quickly dismissed this as a problem. Orange is a nice bright color and, hey, the shirt was clean. As I slid the shirt over my son’s head, between the wind and the excitement of getting dressed in the parking lot, he had decided to be ticklish. He laughed, thrashed about, and resisted my every attempt to put on the shirt, stretching the neck of the shirt significantly before it was finally in place. Determined not to give up on the opportunity, we headed in to find Santa. Paul was excited about seeing Santa, actually requesting it, and I was not going to break the momentum. He resisted sitting on Santa’s lap, but Santa and his helpers were patient. A small line began to form behind us as he circled around Santa, maintaining at least a three-foot distance. “We have to go,” I said to him sadly. We had used up our time, and others were waiting.
    â€œTake all the time you need,” said Santa’s helper. When Santa offered to read him a story, my son could no longer resist, and he settled into the chair beside Santa. He looked up in his orange T-shirt with the stretched-out neck, glasses crooked on his nose, and smiled broadly as the picture was snapped. “Would this picture be okay?” the assistant inquired as she let me take a look.
    â€œYes, it is perfect, ” I beamed.
    What a lesson I have learned in this journey from perfection to reality. Yes, my life is more difficult and complicated having a special-needs child. Yes, there are times I am self-conscious, frustrated, and overwhelmed. But as I proudly carried my hard-earned Santa picture to the car, hand in hand with my little one, I realized that perfection is in the eyes of the