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I became a single parent to my 11-week-old in the very inopportune month of November. In addition to figuring out how to keep an infant alive, adjusting to a parenting schedule that included hours of separation from my baby every week, and managing postpartum physiological and hormonal changes, the holidays facilitated a long line of uncomfortable questioning from friends and neighbors. They cornered me at family gatherings, social events, and even our town’s Turkey Trot. “What happened?” “I noticed you have a new Facebook page!” (It was 2018.) “Mike from the swim team said he saw your husband out alone—where were you and the baby?”
These seemingly innocuous questions served as hurtful reminders that: A) I had failed at marriage, B) the public-facing facade on our picture-perfect marriage had crumbled, and C) in front of me sat a string of years alone with a baby who, at least for a little while, would offer little in terms of conversation. As I dragged myself through those early weeks of questioning, I failed to see that at the end of the month I would encounter a new single-parent first: holidays without my daughter. That Thanksgiving, her dad picked her up during dinnertime for his allotted three hours. Our relationship was never particularly stable, and since early pregnancy, I had spent time imagining life as a single parent. But waking up on Christmas morning without my daughter had escaped the long list of challenges I knew I would face.
As she left with him, her car seat snapped into the back of his SUV, I texted my single-mom friends in tears: “Please tell me this gets easier.” The reality of never experiencing a full holiday with my daughter ate at me all day. My seasoned divorced friends reassured me that yes, it gets better. As they reported from their childless holidays spent with their new partners, on tropical vacations, or, in the case of one friend, a quiet day at work, I knew I would have to find a silver lining in my solitude. I would have to adapt to this new operating procedure. There was no alternative.
Seven years later, I fancy myself a fairly well-adjusted divorced person and unapologetic single mom. I left my daughter’s dad so early in her life that neither my daughter nor I have experienced the world as anything other than a fearless pair. Dramatically fleeing my home with an infant yielded an unexpectedly uneventful divorce. This, coupled with a strong effort on both our parts to get along (at least in front of her), means that she experiences little of the high-tension environment that preceded her arrival into the world. But despite the lack of conflict, co-parenting brings a lot of pain, especially when it means missing out on holidays with my daughter.
Although I spend my days as a scientist studying the health of moms and babies, my deep knowledge of families unfortunately offers no immunity from this hurt. My area of research does, however, allow me to use my own and others’ work to change the way I think about single parenting. Even after seven years of co-parenting, I still recall these coping mechanisms when shared holidays mean missing my daughter.
Most importantly, I remind myself that shared custody is good for kids. Although recent statistics are sparse, by 2014, 34 percent of divorces resulted in some degree of shared physical custody. This includes a holiday schedule where parents alternate. My daughter’s dad and I follow our state’s parenting time guidelines while maintaining a small amount of flexibility on Thanksgiving and Christmas so that our daughter doesn’t have to bounce all over the city. Most research shows that in low-conflict divorces, kids benefit from spending at least 35 percent of their time with each parent.
As I’m planning a Christmas that does not include watching my daughter hop out of bed and bolt to the top of the stairs in anticipation of Santa’s haul, I remember research shows that kids thrive when they have loving, supportive relationships with both parents, regardless of custody arrangement. I imagine my daughter in therapy one day, recounting her childhood to her therapist. Do I want her to recall a series of Christmases in which Mom and Dad heatedly debated the minutiae of shared time? Or do I want her primary complaint to be that neglected toys often disappeared from our house because her passionately minimalist mother can’t handle clutter? If I parent with her future therapy bill in mind, the second one wins.
That first Christmas, when my infant daughter went with her dad for another three-hour visit, a child-free friend and I enjoyed a long run and coffee date at our city’s only open Starbucks. That peaceful, relaxing afternoon offered a welcome shift from the chaotic holidays I experienced when married. Elevated emotions, driving the stepkids to all ends of the city for three gatherings, and managing dogs that couldn’t be alone all day had left me dreading holidays. Now, I look forward to my annual Christmas run.
Reframing emotions around sharing holidays has helped me think differently about her life with her dad. Indeed, research shows that foregrounding positive emotions is one way that we build resilience; this concept has been used to develop programs that help parents adapt to divorce and co-parenting. Reframing became especially helpful when she started to spend Christmas Eve overnights with her dad. As I did on that first Christmas, viewing time missed with my daughter as valuable alone time for me, and an opportunity for her to experience different holiday traditions with her dad, helps lessen the sting of missing out on time with her.
Finally, I tell myself that friends and family who remind me of this missed time during the holidays don’t intend to hurt my feelings. Any divorced parent will tell you that arriving at a holiday event without the kid immediately inspires questions: “Where is she?” “Is she with him?” While I’m accustomed to this on weekends during the rest of the year, on holidays these questions often serve as yet another reminder that I will never experience an entire major holiday with my daughter.
It’s easy to take this personally, especially when I’ve worked so hard to transcend mourning this time with her. But I often forget that because I share custody, my friends and family also miss out on seeing my daughter on holidays. These instances remind me that friends and family also feel deprived when she’s not with me. They look forward to seeing her. It has nothing to do with their feelings toward me.
To be sure, as single parents, we must allow ourselves the space to mourn the loss of any time with our kids. But we also must acknowledge that with a change in our family must also come a change in mindset.
When she was 5, my daughter’s dad picked her up on Christmas Eve for her first time waking up at his house on Christmas morning. The next morning, a few blocks north, I woke up at an acceptably late time to a quiet house. I lingered through assembling Santa’s display of her toys (my parents never wrapped much from Santa, and I’ve eagerly adopted this tradition), ran 10 miles with my friend, and came home in time for a relaxed walk with our dog. I sometimes struggled in the weeks and months leading up to that morning, but by Christmas Eve I had sufficiently prepared myself by drawing upon the memories of surviving holidays in the early years and reassuring myself that she deserves this special time with her dad. A year prior I had established a Christmas Eve tradition in anticipation: Every Christmas Eve we go to the local movie theater and see The Polar Express. It’s a tradition I knew I could keep regardless of our Christmas Day arrangement. This tradition is now the anchor for our holiday: When everything else changes, we know we will see The Polar Express in our matching pajamas (which, with one skeleton-onesie exception, have been Christmas-themed). This year marks my second Christmas morning without her. I look forward to a good sleep, some unfrenetic toy assembly, and a long run. I will feel sad but comfortable knowing that the best holiday is one where my kid gets to see both parents. And two visits from Santa doesn’t hurt.
