To the Santa who made fun of my daughter’s flapping,
My kids had been counting down the days all year to sit on your coveted lap.
Excitement coursed through their little bodies, bubbling over in giggles and wiggling feet.
So when my daughter climbed onto your lap, her hands began to flap and flutter with pure joy.
This is called stimming—an expression of her autism.
I wouldn’t expect you to know that, but I do expect Santa Claus to be a safe, welcoming place, where children’s differences aren’t mocked or made to feel wrong.
You asked me, “Does she always do that?” as you lifted your hands from her back and waved your leather gloves in the air, seemingly imitating her movements.
Instead of asking what she wanted for Christmas this year, you made her answer another question: “What are your hands doing?” She sat there, staring blankly, unsure of how to respond.
Santa, she doesn’t need to know the label of her neurodiversity—it doesn’t define her for us. Her flapping is an expression, an extension of her bright, joyful spirit. It is never something to shame or ridicule.
I want you to know I’m not angry. You’re not the first person to glance at my family and snicker or stare. But as her mother, it’s my responsibility to teach empathy. And since it is the season for kindness, I hope this becomes a moment of awareness for you.
You will meet countless children this holiday season—some who seem perfectly fine but carry invisible scars from broken families, addiction, or disabilities that aren’t immediately visible. They come to you believing in magic, in hope, in the goodness you represent.
So I am asking you, please, treat children like mine with understanding. My daughter is seven, and this may be the last year she believes in your magic. The next time you see a child expressing their emotions with their body, see it as beautiful, not strange. Imagine how much better this world could be if we all stopped trying to mask our differences.
Santa, you are a beacon of hope. You show up, open your arms, and say, “Come sit with me.” That simple acceptance is a gift—one that so many families with autism rarely receive.
So please remember: there is immense joy in this world. And some of the luckiest among us get to flap it out loud.
