“So someone asked about our Christmas tree and I said which one?’ The kiddo stated this morning on the drive in to school.
“Right,” I agreed. “We have several.”
“Mom, we have twelve!” The kiddo corrected me.
“Are you sure, I thought it was like five or six,” I countered, truly unsure of the actual number given several are seasonal/themed trees that stay up year round.
“Trust me, there are twelve. I recounted as soon as you got done decorating last week. You should know by now these are the kind of details that hit my radar.”
Of course they are, I thought to myself. After all, he’s the reason I have twelve trees.
When he was little, the kiddo was afraid of dark spaces, particularly the shadowy corners of rooms. This was before we realized he would be diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome a short year later, back in the days when we offered patented phrases like oh well, that’s just the way it is if there was something he didn’t like or understand. That same year when I was taking down our Christmas decorations, I was on the last small tree when he commented that while he liked our big tree best, the smaller trees I put up throughout the house helped light up the corners. Several days later it dawned on me, I usually put our smaller trees in dark corners because that’s where I have space.
So this morning I smiled and watched in the rearview mirror as the kiddo finished his statement and grinned at me before taking a sip of his coffee. I’m in awe of the young man my son is becoming—my actually fourteen, looks likes he’s eighteen, forever stuck at four in my heart little boy. Every tree in this house is for him.