When I finally agreed to let my soon-to-be-ex husband have our children this Christmas, my next decision was not to stay home. Somehow it's more depressing to attempt the familiar Christmas minus the main players than to overhaul the whole thing. Very kindly, several friends invited me. My friend India seemed like the best fit because, like me, she is deranged about Christmas, always going the whole hog and then some – I didn't want to make Christmas low-key and gloomy just because I'm getting divorced. And she has a big, messy, loving family that is by no means without its divorces, separations and step-parents. It seemed the only way I could face Christmas without my own family and not feel like the tragic spinster aunt for whom everyone feels a bit sorry.
I'll be Skyping my children throughout Christmas, but I am tearfully sad not to be able to pour the sherry for Santa, be there when bulging stockings are discovered, try again in vain to sell sprouts as an idea, pull crackers then use sticky tape to make the paper crowns small enough to stay on their little heads, and cuddle up in front of Wallace & Gromit. Being away from one's children at Christmas feels very wrong and it never occurred to me that I might one day experience it. My parents, despite separating when I was tiny, always spent Christmas Day together and it's only now that I realise the gesture was meaningful to me. I hope one day to achieve the same. I'd like our boys to remember Christmas as a family occasion, not a splintered gathering spread over 250 miles.
But for this year at least, our kids will celebrate two Christmases, that modern ritual disingenuously and guiltily sold to children as a treat, when in fact it's often the only tolerable way for separated parents to cope. I sat my children down in November and asked if they'd like to spend Christmas Day with Granny, Grandad and Daddy; and celebrate another on New Year's Eve with me. After I assured them that Father Christmas had been given both addresses, they agreed almost too readily. They seem to realise that two whole days instead of a fragmented and forced one is a better deal.
But even when celebrating apart, it's vital that parents remain a team. It's important not to engage in one-upmanship when it comes to presents, say. I can see how easily it might happen, but that way madness lies. As the mother, I'm more likely to be the annoying one who gives much-needed new slippers and pants, while my ex would instinctively be the superstar who buys them touchscreen tablets. So if boring and underwhelming gifts must be bought, then we're in it together. Everything not from Father Christmas will be tagged from both of us, whether it's a toothbrush or an action figure.
There's no denying that the practicalities of Christmas are less fun post-separation. I can't get the decorations down because the loft has no ladder. Instead, I hurriedly bought a pile of cheap supermarket decorations and decorated the tree alone, as though it were just another chore rather than a meaningful family ritual. The next day, our children's Christmas concert wasn't shared by my husband, and I felt sad and guilty to be there alone. At home, I keep staring at the flatpack box containing table football and fooling myself that successful assembly is achievable. Perhaps most trickily, the financial cost of Christmas is obscene – even when exercising restraint – and post-separation, with a terrifyingly expensive divorce looming, I've had to budget very carefully, buying a couple of presents a week over several months.
But even for me, bereft of my family, the arrangement is not without some perks. I haven't had to buy gifts for my in-laws, and any presents under the tree will be opened in the afternoon, not the morning as my ex's family insisted. Most cheeringly, I will be spending Christmas in Marrakech with my friend India, a change of scenery that feels like the only way to face the holiday without my children. It's a first Christmas that is both heartbreaking and liberating, a new tradition born from necessity.
