Some kids grow out of their holiday phases. Mine? He’s doubled down.
Carter is eight, autistic, and completely, unapologetically in love with Christmas. Not just in December—all year long. If it were up to him, Santa would have his own place at the dinner table and candy canes would be a food group.
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At first, I tried to gently redirect. “Buddy, it’s April,” I’d say, folding up the elf pajamas he insisted on wearing. Or “Let’s wait until closer to Christmas,” when he asked to re-hang the lights for the third time in June.
But one day he looked up at me, holding a red ornament in one hand and a glittery stocking in the other, and said, “It makes my brain feel calm.”
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That’s all it took.
Since then, we’ve leaned into it. Every day he puts on his clip-on Christmas tie before school. Every Friday night, we watch Elf like it’s a brand-new release. His locker has tinsel. His room glows red and green. And yeah, we still get strange looks at the store when he wishes cashiers a merry Christmas in the middle of July.
But he’s happy, and in a world where it feels like everything is trying to fit into a neat, predictable box, that’s enough for me.
At first, I wasn’t sure how this all would play out. People can be judgmental. A lot of folks don’t understand autism, let alone how something like a Christmas obsession could help a child find peace. But Carter doesn’t just get calm from it; he gets joy. And what parent wouldn’t want that for their child?
It wasn’t just the decorations, either. It was the rituals—the traditions that made Carter feel secure. The countdown to Christmas? He made his own calendar, and every morning, he checks it off with excitement, even though it’s months away. The carols? They played on repeat in our house all year, not just for the season. For Carter, the magic of Christmas wasn’t about the gifts or the holiday rush—it was about the feeling of togetherness, the rhythm of the familiar.
When he was younger, I used to feel embarrassed about his obsession. I’d cringe when I saw people staring, or when Carter shouted “Merry Christmas!” too loudly at a stranger. I even tried to convince him that maybe he could tone it down, keep it more “normal.” But his face would fall, and he’d ask, “Why can’t I say it? It’s Christmas, right?” And I’d realize that, for him, it wasn’t about the month on the calendar. It was about a feeling he couldn’t let go of—a feeling of joy, of love, of peace.
So, we let him have it. Why not? The world is filled with people who suppress their joy to meet others’ expectations. Maybe, just maybe, this was Carter’s way of showing us what it means to truly live in the moment.
There’s this thing that happens with autism sometimes, this kind of magic where their worlds are so beautifully simple, so crystal clear, and they can find peace in the little things that others overlook. For Carter, Christmas wasn’t just about presents or the tree—it was about the spirit of it all. The kindness, the warmth, the familiar comfort that always seemed to linger in the air.
Some days, I catch myself getting caught up in the hustle of life—work, errands, stress. But then Carter will come into the room wearing his Santa hat, asking if we can “sing some Christmas songs,” and suddenly, the chaos of my day doesn’t seem so important. I smile, we sing, and for those few moments, the world feels lighter.
The neighbors, at first, thought it was strange. Some of them didn’t get it. They saw Carter hanging lights in July or walking around with reindeer antlers on his head and would give us curious looks. But over time, something shifted. They saw how happy he was. They saw how it wasn’t hurting anyone, how it brought him joy and comfort. And before I knew it, there was a shift in the neighborhood. One by one, families started hanging up lights or pulling out their old Christmas decorations just to make Carter smile. A small group of us started a tradition every December where we’d decorate the block together—people who had never spoken to each other now chatting over string lights and wreaths.
It was like Christmas was catching. The holiday spirit wasn’t confined to one day in December; it was in the air all year long. It felt like a contagious reminder that kindness, generosity, and joy weren’t just reserved for the holidays—they could be woven into every day. And Carter, with his innocent, pure love for Christmas, had started a ripple effect that reached farther than I could have imagined.
But it wasn’t just about the holidays for Carter. One of the most beautiful things that happened during this time was seeing how his love for Christmas transformed into something even more profound. We started getting small gifts from our neighbors—tiny little surprises just because they knew Carter loved Christmas. At first, I thought it was a simple kindness. But then one day, Carter came running into the kitchen, his arms full of gifts he had been collecting. “Look, Mommy! I have a present for you!”
I watched him, wide-eyed, as he gave me a hand-painted ornament he’d made in school, wrapped in sparkly red paper. “For you, Mom,” he said, beaming. “So you can have Christmas, too.”
In that moment, I realized something that took me by surprise. It wasn’t just about him. Carter had internalized the spirit of Christmas—he had understood the core of what it meant, even if he didn’t fully comprehend the cultural significance. He wasn’t just receiving joy; he was giving it.
That’s when I truly understood. Carter wasn’t just obsessed with Christmas. He was obsessed with the feeling that Christmas brought—the sense of giving, of warmth, of inclusivity. He loved it because it represented the best in people. And it wasn’t just a holiday—it was a way of life.
Of course, not everyone got it. Some family members still tried to “correct” him when he wore a Santa sweater in July, or when he asked for the Christmas tree to be up in February. They didn’t understand how something so seemingly simple could hold so much meaning for him. But as time went on, I stopped caring what they thought. I stopped caring about what was “normal.” If Carter’s joy came from Christmas lights in May, who was I to stop him?
It wasn’t until this year that everything came full circle, in a way I never expected. I was talking to a therapist who works with Carter, and she asked me if I had ever considered that maybe this obsession with Christmas was a way for him to cope with anxiety. I had always seen it as just something he loved, but she pointed out that for children with autism, routines and familiar patterns were often a way to feel in control of a world that felt unpredictable and overwhelming.
She said that Christmas, with its predictable rituals—the songs, the decorations, the routines—offered Carter a sense of stability in an otherwise chaotic world. It gave him something constant, something safe to look forward to.
That was the twist I hadn’t expected. What I thought was a cute quirk, a simple love of the season, was actually his coping mechanism, a way to soothe his mind and find peace in a world that often didn’t make sense to him.
And with that realization, everything changed. I stopped seeing Carter’s obsession as just a phase or a funny quirk. I saw it for what it really was—a lifeline for him. The decorations, the carols, the lights—they weren’t just about Christmas. They were about him feeling safe, about him finding calm in a world that could be too loud, too fast, too much.
That’s when I truly leaned into it. I stopped fighting his love for Christmas and embraced it. We celebrated it every day, not because it was the season, but because it was what made him feel good. And, in the process, it taught me a beautiful lesson about love, acceptance, and how to find joy in the little things.
As we approach another year of Christmas every day, I find myself filled with gratitude for Carter’s unique way of seeing the world. He’s teaching me, in his own special way, that we don’t need to wait for a certain time of year to experience love, joy, and kindness. We can choose to live with those things every single day.
If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from my son, it’s this: sometimes, the greatest gift you can give is the gift of understanding. If we all embraced the things that made us feel safe, joyful, and loved—no matter how unconventional—we could live in a world where every day feels like Christmas.
So, if you’ve enjoyed this little peek into our lives, please share it with someone who might need a reminder that happiness doesn’t have to fit into a box, and kindness isn’t limited to just one season. Let’s spread a little Christmas spirit every day.
