This document is an article about a woman dealing with spending Christmas without her children for the first time since divorcing her husband. It discusses: 1) The woman's shock and sadness when her ex-husband tells her he is taking the children to spend Christmas with him in France, bringing up difficult memories of her own parents' divorce. 2) How upset the children, especially the daughter, were at the idea of being apart from their mother at Christmas. 3) The challenges the woman has faced as a single parent, from financial worries to feeling overwhelmed by childcare responsibilities alone. 4) Her pain at dropping the children off with their father in France for Christmas and facing the holiday without them

1. THE TIMES Saturday December 17 2011
4 Body + Soul
‘‘The only
parent they had
in the country
had become
a shrieking
harridan
’’
‘‘One friend said
that children
should be with
their mothers.
But my kids
miss their dad
’’
‘‘You want
children to be
excited
about their
time with the
other parent
’’
W
hen I was told by
my ex-husband
that he wanted
the kids to spend
Christmas with
himinFrance,my
legs turned to
jelly and I thought I might faint. I held on
tothesinkandsaidnothing.Wewerecook-
ing at a mutual friend’s house in Suffolk,
whereFredwasstayingforhalf-termtosee
our children, who were spending the holi-
day with me at my mother’s cottage, a
stone’sthrowaway.
Despite the animated conversation of
the other adults at the kitchen table, and
the raucous play of our combined off-
spring, I felt shockingly alone. My parents
divorced when I was almost six. Christmas
with one parent was always marred by a
sense of desolation and betrayal of the
other. A memory of my father telling me
that he was going to spend Christmas Day
in bed eating ham and eggs and that he
couldn’t imagine anything nicer shot into
mind. He had looked so pleased with him-
self that I had felt rejected; wouldn’t he
missus?Butunderneath,Iknew he would,
and the vision of him alone in bed with his
plate of food was unbearably sad; his
punishment to me for not being there. I
couldn’t bear my children to conjure up
images of me, solitary and miserable with-
out them, but what if I played these horri-
ble psychological games unconsciously,
likemylonelydad?
A few days later, when the children had
been told about Christmas, the boys were
robust. They’d be fine with Papa, they said.
But my daughter’s chin wobbled and tears
coursed down her cheeks. “What will you
do, Mummy?” I would miss them, I said,
but it was only a few days. I’d find some
friends to be with and she wasn’t to worry.
We’d have an early celebration in London
before they left. “Two Christmases!”
shrieked the youngest. But later he picked
upapairofsmallfigures,stockingpresents
from last year: “This is Mummy, this is
Papa, and this is how it should be.” He held
themtogethersotheyhugged.
Our separation, finalised last February
when Fred moved back to Paris after
nearly 13 years in London, has been so
amicable that people say we make divorce
look easy. He has spent nights on our sofa
during visits to England; he has taken the
children to my mother’s for weekends; he
has come to look after them when I’ve had
to go abroad for work; we have told each
other and the children that we are best
friendsandalwayswillbe.
But, of course, there is nothing easy
about the break-up of a 16-year relation-
ship,especiallywhenitinvolvesfourchild-
ren; we have three, aged 7, 12 and 13, and I
have been stepmother to Fred’s 21-year-
old daughter, Margot, since she was 5. She
was living with us during the break-up and
was extremely angry and upset on her
father’s behalf, though she stayed with her
siblings and me when he moved out to
campintheneighbours’spareroom.
“But you made vows,” she said to me. “I
don’t believe in God,” I said bizarrely, lost
for a real answer. There were plenty, but
theseparationwasaslowrollandthemulti-
tude of reasons had finally crystalised into
the conviction that we should live apart.
Our obvious differences are no greater
thatthoseofmanymarriedcouplesIknow
—I am ambitious andslightly neurotic; he
likes wine with lunch and afternoon naps.
We just don’t gel any more as a couple, in
thewayweoncedid.Ihadwantedthingsto
change on all sortsof levelsand after years
of talking, rowing, letters and ultimatums,
I finally realised that this was it: nothing
wasgoingtochange,ever.
“It’s the end of an era,” said one friend
whenwesplit.“You’vegotsomuchincom-
mon,” said another. We both read, both
work in the art world, both like music
(thoughhisenduringloveofFrenchheavy
metal has always been a point of conten-
tion) and we both adore our children. The
most frequent reaction, however, was:
“Yes,you’vebeenunhappyforawhilenow,
haven’tyou?”
Months later, chatting over bubbling
pots of peas and carrots in the Suffolk
seasidetownwherewehavespentsomany
of our family birthdays, Christmases and
summers, it seemed for a moment that we
had indeed created the apotheosis of the
perfect divorce: “Look at us — aren’t we
civilised? We’ve got it so right where our
parentsgotitsowrong.”Butthe Christmas
bombshellbootedmebacktoreality.
Yes,FredandIgetonwell,agreeonmost
child-rearingissuesandhavethegoodfor-
tunenottobeangrywithoneanother(any
more). That’s the upside of our separation;
I am much more compassionate towards
him now that my future happiness is no
longer invested in our relationship. I think
he is brave to go back to France; it’s great
for the children to see their father making
it in his own country, where he is so funny,
the life and soul, rather than here, slightly
atoddswithhisenvironment.
But none of this diminishes the pain of
the separation for them or for each of us
when they are with the other parent, and
there is also the mourning for a marriage
embarked on with such hope. I cannot
begin to comprehend how much Fred
misses the children or how he copes with
the pain of their absence, but I bear their
pain every day and it has been a long year
ofseismicchangeforusall.
There’sneveragoodtimetotellthechild-
ren.ItoldHector,then12,inthecar.Hewas
visibly stunned, the stuffing knocked out,
and I had palpitations, so we stopped at a
garageforchocolateandhelet himselfcry.
“You argued a lot, but you said all parents
argued, so I thought it was nothing to
worry about,” he said. I imagined him in
his room, listening to us, telling himself it
wouldbeallright,andmetellinghimmuch
the same, knowing things were wrong but
never sure it was irredeemable. How do
youknowuntilitsuddenlybecomesclear?
Ludo was in our bed, one he has always
preferred to his own. I wondered whether,
aged nearly 7, he’d grasp the full implica-
tion of what I was saying, but he did, burst-
ing into tears, asking why Papa couldn’t
sleep on the floor on a mattress instead of
moving out. I explained that we wanted to
separatewhilewewerestillgoodfriendsso
that we could be the best parents possible
rather than wait until things got worse. I
citedsomeofhisfriends’parentswhodon’t
speak if they can help it; all my children
havewitnessedthesesilenthandovers.“I’d
rather you lived together and argued all
thetimethanseparated,”hesaid.
The next day at school, Ludo pinned his
name under the heading “sad”, one of
several emotions on the classroom wall
that children can claim if they feel the
need. His teacher asked why and he said
thathisparentswereseparating.Sheasked
if there were any other children whose
mum and dad didn’t live together and
when a few put up their hands, a gentle
discussionensued.
For me, though, the stress of trying to
give the children the attention they
needed, run the house, shop and cook,
produce enough freelance journalism to
support us all,attend the private viewsand
international art fairs required to feed said
journalism and fend off gut-wrenching
financial worries was my first real insight
intowhatitmeanstoliveasasingleparent.
Without a partner to share my fears and
concerns, they engulfed me; unable, ever,
to hand over to Fred, the childcare never
stopped. Wonderfully long night-time
conversations with young adolescents are
to be treasured, but they can seem relent-
less after days that begin at 6.30am with
absolutely no respite. Sibling squabbles,
such an unremarkable part of family life,
becamemonumentaltothemandunbeara-
ble to me. I shouted a lot and felt guilty all
thetime.
This was all my poor children needed:
the only parent they had in the country,
who told them that the separation was
for the best and we’d all be happier, had
become a shrieking harridan, banging on
about table manners, the mind-rotting
properties of computer games, messy
rooms,theinevitabilityofGCSEsandany-
thing else that would serve to conceal the
rootoftheproblem:overwhelmingpanic.
And then things began to get better.
Longgapswithoutseeingtheirfatherwere
not ideal for the children, but they talked
on Skype and Fred sent frequent funny
postcards. We found new ways of being
together.I relaxedandwewatched movies
withsuppersometimes—Ludowouldsay:
“Wecan’twatchafamilymoviebecausewe
aren’t a family without Papa.” But seconds
later he’d be buoyantly happy — and I de-
cided to forgo an au pair so that Tilly and
Ludo would no longer have to share a
room. Shifting furniture to this end was
dauntingwithoutconsummatehandyman
Fred, but Hector’s shoulders seemed to
have broadened overnight and he man-
fully unscrewed shelving and hauled
desks. “I think you’re doing really well at
beingaparent,Mum,”hesaidkindly.
Underpinning this was, of course, my
admonishing superego telling me I could
not be enough for him, and that I had
deprivedhimofhisdad.Itwassummerand
Fred and I had agreed that I would bring
the children to the South of France, leave
them with him, stay with my friend Tracey
for two weeks, then bring them home. It
soundedsosimple;itwasagony.
Fred picked us up at Nice airport and
drove us to the beach nearest Tracey’s
house, where we’d arranged to meet at the
restaurant.Sheandherotherhouseguests
were there, drinking rosé, looking brown.
Suddenly, we seemed to cohere as a family
unit and all five of us peeled off sticky
clothes and ran down to the sea, Ludo los-
ing his habitual fear of swimming, leaping
through the waves from Fred to me and
back again, as though unable to believe his
luck. We had dinner outside as night fell,
then it was time for Fred to leave with the
children and for me to stay where I was.
Seconds later I was in tears in the arms of
a fellow guest I had never met. “If it’s any
consolation,they’relovelykids,”saidsome-
oneelse, which soundedtome like suchan
understatement,Ilaughed.
Staying tantalisingly close to the child-
ren but unable to see them was painful in
the extreme, in spite of Tracey’s valiant
attempts to give me the holiday of a life-
time. Next year I’ll leave them all to it and
go far away. But it certainly made me start
to appreciate how it must be for Fred,
which was why I couldn’t argue with his
Christmas plans. They were a surprise
becausewe’dagreedthathewouldcometo
London for Christmas and take the child-
renbacktoFranceforthenewyear.Buthis
mother is having a big family celebration,
with lots of cousins for the children to see,
sohewantstobethere.
As the prospect of Christmas without
them sank in, all I could think about was
stockings; first theirs, then the ones my
mother used to hand over to our father
every other Christmas. When we were
little, he put them on our beds as we slept,
butby the timewewere10, my brother and
Ihadtotakethemtobedourselves.Itdidn’t
matter; waking up to the weight of stock-
ings on our feet was still the most exciting
moment of the day and they provided an
intimate contact with our mother, whose
presence we felt as each object was un-
wrapped, carefully synchronised: “Next
oneready?Go.Whatdidyouget?”
“I can do the stockings,” said Fred. “It’s
myChristmas,Icandoeverything.”
“But you’ve never done them, you don’t
know how,” I said, dangerously close to
tears. “I’ve watched you, I can do it,” he
said. But the French cannot do stockings:
they hang them on the wall like decora-
tions. My mother says I should insist on
this one thing. “I remember sending you
off, and thinking of you both unwrapping
yourstockingswassohelpful,”shesaid,her
face momentarily suffused with a long-
buriedbleaknessI’dneverseenbefore.
I will insist, and so will Margot no doubt,
as there is no way Fred will be able to navi-
gate the Paris branch of Topshop for hers.
Other mothers’ responses to my Christ-
mas question were interesting. One said
that children should be with their mothers
because they need them and fathers care
lessaboutthesethings.Butmykidswantto
be with their dad; they miss him. And Fred
cares deeply. Another friend said that
Christmas is an ideal time for them to go:
“They don’t see him enough, so a signifi-
cant holiday like this will perform a really
importantfunction,becomeabigmemory
thatfillsthegaps.”Icandealwiththat.
I have received several offers for Christ-
mas, having decided not to be with my
mother and stepfather because I’ll only
miss the children. I need something com-
pletely different. A trip to Hong Kong? A
singles’ Christmas in Central London? Or
aScandinaviancelebrationinHighbury?
I have no idea whether I’ll be alright or
not:atthemomentIvascillatebetweenjoy
at the prospect of catching up on exhibi-
tions,filmsandbooksandthosefamiliarin-
timations of childhood desolation. No
matter whom I’m with, part of me will feel
utterly alone. So I’m focussed on New
Year’s Eve with my kids in Suffolk, where
midnight is marked in spectacular style
withfireworks on the beach and the whole
town comes out to watch. Any lingering
Christmas woes should be dispelled by a
good half hour of ear-splitting bangs and
burstsoflightinthenightsky.
Christmas: a
divorcee’s guide
I
n my work as a divorce coach, I al-
ways remind separating couples that
children take their cues from their
parents. If you are the one who is
goingtobeonhisorherownatChrist-
mas, your children will want to know
your arrangements and how you are
going to get on. You want them to be excit-
ed about their time with the other parent,
soyoucouldsay:“IwillmissyoubutIamso
excited that you’re going to have this great
time. Here’s what I’m going to be doing.
Next year we can think about what we can
do together.” Children need to be reas-
suredthateverythingwillbefine.
WhenitcomestophoningonChristmas
Day,Ithinkit’sbestifparentsplanahead.If
you are the parent without the children,
ask your former partner: “Can you let me
knowyourplansforthedaysoIcanchoose
a good time to call?” If you are the parent
who has the children, encourage them to
phone the other parent. Young children
may not think about calling Mum if they
are wrapped up in what they’re doing. I
always encourage parentsto be supportive
ofthechildren’srelationshipwiththeother
parent. It’s a good idea for parents to
co-ordinate gift giving. Nochild is going to
complain about double quantities of
presents but if your children are over-
indulgedyouarenothelpingthem.
Make the most of the time when the
children are with you. I have two “bonus
kids” — an alternative name for step-
children — and two bio kids. The years
when the bonus kids are with me and my
husband at Christmas we celebrate then,
and on the years when they are with their
Mum we make the New Year special, so
theydon’tfeeltorn.
Sometimes we get so focused on how
much time wespend with the children and
what we do in that time that we cram
things in and end up with overwhelmed,
stressed kids. Build in some time where
there’snoagenda,evenonChristmasDay.
Younger children may be anxious when
they are separated from either parent.
Thereislotsyoucandotomakethingseasi-
er,suchascreatingapicturebookoftheim-
portant people in their life that they can
take between parents. For older ones, I en-
courage using technology — send them a
quicktexttokeepintouch.
Give gifts without strings. What hap-
pens often in divorced families when ten-
sions are running high is that parents say:
“This is your gift and it’s not to leave this
house.” Imagine if someone gave you a
present and said that you could use it only
when you were at their house. It wouldn’t
feellikemuchofagift.
Christmas can set the tone for children
about what to expect for the rest of the
year. It can get things off to a good start.
You want to show that although the mar-
riagehasended,thefamilycontinues.
ByChristinaMcGhee,theauthorof
ParentingApart:HowSeparatedand
DivorcedParentsCanRaiseHappyand
SecureKids(Vermilion£12.99)
AstoldtoMirandaMcMinn
When her ex-husband said he wanted
their children to spend Christmas with
him, Sophie Hastings was devastated. But
she knew she would have to let them go
Why I’m spending Christmas without my children
MARK HARRISON
Sophie Hastings
at her home