Flying Solo Christmas Morning

I’m hiding out at Starbucks this morning while Maggie and her kids open gifts and enjoy their Christmas morning. I didn’t think a pathetic, tearful roommate skulking about would do much for the festive, holiday atmosphere.

Yesterday, I hugged my kids extra tight… and for most of the day. My shopping was done, gifts wrapped and under the tree and all my holiday preparations were complete. I made sure there was nothing to distract me from the task at hand, because today, I’m faced with a reality I’ve not encountered in all the years I’ve been a mom: Christmas morning without my kids.

For years, Ben and Lucy’s dad and I agreed that their Christmas mornings should be spent in the place they consider “home.” So, for six Christmases, we’ve enjoyed Christmas morning at our house and invited dad to join us. He would come early and see the kids open their gifts, we’d share breakfast and then we’d divide the rest of the day however was most appropriate given our circumstances at that time. I’m proud we were able to maintain that set-up for such a long time and for such formative years of the kids’ lives.

But many things have changed this past year, including dad moving in with his girlfriend and her children. This year, dad wanted his own Christmas. It’s certainly “his turn,” there’s no doubt about that. And I know I’m being a bit of a baby about it. Most single parents face the reality of Christmas morning without their children in the first or second year of their divorce. I’m incredibly lucky that I’ve not had to face it before now. But knowing I’m lucky for all the years I’ve had, and knowing it’s completely appropriate and fair that dad should get the kids for his own Christmas doesn’t make me any less sad. I can rationalize my feelings all day long, but it doesn’t stop me from experiencing them.

So here I sit at my local Starbucks waiting for the three hours I’ll get to spend with the kids this afternoon. Thinking that looking better would make me feel better, I got up early, showered, put on a reasonably cute outfit and did my hair and make-up for my solo morning. The make-up might have been a mistake, however. I cried before even getting out of the house and the mixture of eyeliner and smeared concealer has produced an ever-so-slightly deranged effect. I think my alarming appearance may have startled the barista who took my order. Or maybe it was the ferociousness with which I swatted her hand away when she reached for my travel mug intending to put coffee in it.

I may be sad. I may look deranged. I may be a big-ole baby and it’s entirely possible I truly am pathetic. But I still have the wherewithal to put on a kick-ass pair of boots, my cutest jeans and hold my head high with a mimosa in my hand (even if that mimosa is in a travel mug with “Ben” Sharpied on the side).

Hands off the mimosa, lady. Sheesh.