Single parent finds Christmas joy by becoming own Santa

Victoria Richards, The Independent

Like anyone else, Christmas for me comes in multitudes: something I look forward to and dread in equal measure. Being a single parent or co-parent at this time of year means double the work and double the effort to keep everyone’s spirits high and cheerful (and double the stress when things go wrong). During the bleak midwinter of the Covid years, when I was restricted to staying at home alone with two under-10s and my parents kindly dropped off a Christmas dinner in Tupperware to our doorstep, it was hard work, bracing work, to keep smiling and perky and make sure everyone had a good time. I had to be Santa, Mrs Claus and the elves all wrapped into one — crying over the turkey simply wasn’t an option (or, at least, I had to hide it behind a white, fluffy, stick-on beard).

And the ultimate sting of doing Christmas solo? Nobody even gets you a present to put beneath the tree. For a good couple of years, in fact, when my kids were still too young to think of it, the only gift for me (who had single-handedly bought and wrapped all the presents for everybody else, as usual) to open on Christmas morning was a party from my boss (thanks, David!). It was much appreciated, I can tell you that much. And it did not last long. Sure, Christmas isn’t really about presents — we all know it’s about spending quality time with the people you love. But that’s when single (or co)-parenting over the holiday season can become not only tough, but painful: you put all of your efforts into making it magical, only to have to watch them drive away with the other parent halfway through the holiday (or, even worse: have one year on, one off. When that happens, one friend of mine swears by spending December 25 volunteering for Crisis at Christmas, which sounds like an excellent way to beat the blues).

Christmas cheer, Christmas spirit, that holiday feeling — or however you wish to describe it — can feel hard to come by when you’re left completely on your own; when the house is devoid of excited talk about Santa and you’re the only muppet on the sofa watching

The Muppet Christmas Carol — by yourself, clutching a double Baileys like it’s a life raft and eating a wedge of brie like an apple (don’t look at me).

Luckily, this year, for the first time ever, I’ve found the perfect solution to beating the single-parent blues: making myself a Christmas stocking. As they say, self-love is the best love... From the moment December starts, whatever “little treats” (and it is very important to call them “little treats”, for that is most definitely what they are and should be) I buy that could even loosely be termed as “for me” (and yes, that includes a new spatula and a jar of my favourite condiment: Patak’s lime pickle), go into a special stockpile that I won’t open until I’m wrapping them — along with everything else for Santa (and isn’t he lucky, that man, having so many women doing his work for him?!).

Then, bing! Like magic, they appear on Christmas morning, enticingly nestled in a red fluffy stocking at the end of my bed, lovingly placed there by the person who wants the best for me: me.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong at all with being a little selfish at this time of year, do you? If you don’t love yourself, you won’t be role modelling that love to your kids, either. Let’s face it: the real seasonal scandal is that women usually do everything — the cooking, the decorating, the gifting, the wrapping and the hosting; while the dads (and even the grandads) simply ring up their daughters and grand-daughters for ideas on “what to get Mum”.

It’s not fair and I’ve had enough of it: so this year, the person I’ll really be spoiling, along with my kids... is me. And it may be silly, it may be frivolous, it may even be foolish given the ridiculous amount Christmas ends up costing every one of us, particularly when you’re a care-giver: but according to my made-up new tradition, you can spend as much (or as little) as you like.

So far, my stocking stash contains the following “little treats”, chosen without intervention or suggestion, as local to home and independently-stocked as possible: some handcrafted British chocolate (a box of rose and violet creams from Audrey’s chocolatier in Hove, thank you very much and yes please); a luxury winter candle from the British perfumer Ffern that smells like the sea; some Jo Nova hair oil to transform my mad beehive into a sleek barnet for any parties I hope to get invited to; some collagen sachets (there are so many out there and neglible evidence that collagen has any effect, but after two hours of desperate research I went for a brand called Zooki in the passionfruit flavour); a lovely, reflective, guided journal and some conversation cards by the British poet Theresa Lola; the latest Booker winner, Flesh, by David Szalay — and that spatula. Now, what are you going to put in yours?