Last December, my Christmas Day looked like any other.
At 5am, I crept into my son’s room and executed my signature wake-up move – half-belly-flop-half-hug – before whispering the magic words into Jack’s ear: ‘Santa’s Been!’
He promptly ran downstairs and beamed when he saw that the couch, which is usually plenty big enough for both of us, was overflowing with a mountain of gifts and soon enough, the living room became a scene of controlled chaos.
We’d put a fake fire on the TV so the digital crackle could soundtrack the morning, and the smell of fresh coffee wafted from mine and my partner’s mugs as we watched Jack throw wrapping paper everywhere despite the bin bag at his feet.
It was loud, messy, and full of love – a perfect Christmas day.
But this year, the silence in my living room will be deafening as, for the first time in nearly a decade, I will be waking up on Christmas morning entirely alone.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with December 25 since 2013.
Not only was that the year my ex-husband and I officially separated, but that was also the first Christmas I spent without Jack.
Granted, that was due to a medical emergency – I was admitted to hospital with pyelonephritis, a severe kidney infection, on December 18 – and so was physically unable to care for a toddler, but it started a new system for our family.
Since then, we agreed that whenever Jack’s age is an odd number, his dad takes him for Christmas. When it is an even number, I take him. We also do similar swaps for Easter, while New Year is an annual negotiation.
I’m truly grateful for our amicable relationship and that our co-parenting Christmas schedule was not decided in a solicitor’s office or a court – I have many friends who are not so lucky, and their acrimonious separations often result in arguments, mediation, and court dates as they try to negotiate the holidays.
But I’d be lying if I said it was easy.
Thankfully, for the majority of the years I have been without Jack on Christmas, I have had a new partner to fill the void.
For almost a decade, my ex-partner and I created a wonderful blended family and found a way to navigate the odd and even years together.
On the years I had Jack, we’d enjoy a normal day, a roast dinner and a big pile of gifts. We don’t adhere to ‘traditions’ because the one year we did the big meal around the table, pulling crackers, it was a disaster.
Jack has autism and the pressure and the sensory overload caused meltdowns that stressed everyone out. We find a nice, relaxed Christmas is enough variation in the routine for him to navigate.
On the years without Jack we’d do our own ‘mini-Christmas’ complete with a dinner of only our favourite bits – we’d swap turkey for lamb and gammon, have bowls of roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, plenty of pigs in blankets and lashings of gravy – Christmas movies and, of course, a few gifts.
Even on the years he was working, he was usually home for part of the day which meant we could still celebrate together. And on Boxing Day we would visit my then-partner’s family to do it all over again.
However, in August, that relationship came to an end and, as Jack is 13 this year, that means it’s his Dad’s turn to have him, so this will be the first time since 2015, that I am facing the day just me, myself and I.
Naturally the question everyone keeps asking me is: What are you going to do?
While I have been invited to visit my step-mum and her mum on Christmas Day, as my father is working out of the country until the New Year, I have politely declined.
My mum sadly isn’t an option this year either.
So, I have made a decision: I am staying home, alone.
My plan for Christmas Day 2025 will be a masterclass in self-care. I am going to sleep late – there will be no 5am belly flops this year – I will drink coffee in silence, and binge-watch reruns of Grey’s Anatomy, or maybe throw in a cheesy Christmas movie if the mood strikes.
There will be no turkey to baste and no potatoes to peel. Instead, I am going to make myself a massive charcuterie board and snack on cheese and meats throughout the day whenever I feel like it.
I’m sure to some, a solo Christmas with a mountain of cheese, salami, onion chutney, and TV might sound tragic, but I am not doing it out of self-pity. I am doing it because, frankly, I would rather save my festive energy for when my son comes home on Boxing Day.
Once he’s home the real celebrations can begin. On 27 December we’ll have a proper dinner together, watch movies, and do the things that make our Christmas complete. And, of course, he’ll get his presents from me, too.
I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t prefer to have the noise, the wrapping paper mess, and the 5am wake-up call every single year. I will, and do, miss Jack desperately when he’s celebrating Christmas elsewhere. But I also know that he is happy, safe and loved at his dad’s.
Co-parenting is a life of constant transitions as I switch between ‘Mum mode’ and ‘Solo mode’. It is jarring and messy, but it is our reality. So this year, I am embracing the silence. I am recharging my batteries. Because next year, Jack will be 14 and the chaos will return.
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