My child got coal for Christmas.
Not as a joke.
Not as a lesson.
Not because Santa misunderstood the assignment.
Because that’s exactly what he asked for.
Like most parents, I made my children write Christmas lists, the helpful ones you can share with anyone who asks, “What should I get them for Christmas?”
I always braced myself before reading them. As the mother of neurodivergent children, there was inevitably something questionable on the page.
But this year?
This year’s list took the cake.
I sat down with my youngest son to go through his list. One item. Just one.
COAL.
My internal monologue spiralled instantly.
Did this child think that’s all he deserved?
Had someone told him he was naughty?
Had I somehow failed so spectacularly as a parent that my child was asking Santa for punishment?
I decided not to panic. Surely he’d change his mind. I gave it a few days. I’d ask again closer to Christmas.
Two days before Christmas, after being asked daily what he wanted, the answer never changed.
Not a toy and coal.
Not coal as a joke.
Just… coal.
Asked for with excitement. With commitment. With confidence.
At that point, I accepted that I was raising a very specific type of human.
When I passed this information on to family and friends, the reactions were mixed with laughter, concern, and long pauses of concern.
Then there was my 13-year-old. His list arrived digitally, complete with links.
Most of it made perfect sense for my Lego loving artist.
Except for two items.
A deeply unsettling Garfield plush.
And a book.
I ordered both without question, because experience had taught me not to fight this battle.
When the book arrived, I realised immediately that I’d been played. Four hundred pages. The same sentence. Repeated endlessly. No twist. No payoff. Just unwavering commitment to the bit.
I was annoyed at first, but the longer I sat there, staring at this book, the more I remembered who my child was.
This was his humour his timing, his quiet, deadpan delivery that waited patiently for everyone else to catch up. He knew it was funny long before I did, and honestly, that felt iconic. He would be sitting there Watching family members flip through the book, waiting for it to start, was just bonus content.
Christmas Day tied it all together.
My youngest tore into his wrapping and lit up when he found his coal, excited, proud, utterly validated in his choice.
My teenager cheered at his cursed Garfield and smirked as the book when I asked did he know what he asked for the smirk turned into a chuckle as it made its way around the room, silently observing the confusion in everyone else’s face unfold exactly as planned.
These lists didn’t look like my other children’s lists. There were no trending toys, no must-haves, no wishes shaped by ads and what everyone else has.
But they were thoughtful, Intentional, Joyful in their own very specific ways.
And maybe that’s the point. So yes, Christmas in our house included coal, cursed Garfield, and a 400-page joke. With the thought of what gift ideas I will have to look forward to next year
Neurodivergent kids don’t want less. They just want different. Different joy. Different meaning. Different magic. It’s children who feel seen, understood, and safe enough to ask for exactly what delights them.
That’s a Christmas I’ll happily keep.
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