the times Saturday December 18 202112 Body + Soul
A
h, Christmas.
“It’s the most
wonderful time
of the year”, or
so the song
goes, although
anyone on the
brink of divorce, going through
a divorce or newly divorced
might want to insert their own
adjective. Most terrible time of
the year? Most miserable? How
about: it’s the most emotionally
and logistically challenging time
of the year? Apt, but doesn’t
scan. “Virusy” works.
Still, if you’ve ever had to
reassure a confused six-year-
old that Father Christmas
definitely knows which house
they’ll be in (Mum’s or Dad’s) or
realised that their Nativity
costumes are at the “other”
house just when you need
them, or waved your children
off on Christmas Day for the
first time, a pandemic, by
comparison, feels less traumatic.
Divorce is painful. It’s the end of an era
and there’s no pamphlet to tell you how to
do the next bit. With a decade of divorced
Christmas experiences to my name, I’m
here to tell you that with a bit of work,
a healthy dollop of compromise and a
sprinkling of maturity it can end up pretty
good. Different, but good.
I split up with my husband ten years ago.
Our daughter was six, our son four — they
were sweet, innocent, primary-age cher-
ubs, too young to understand the ramifica-
tions of the split or the reasons behind it.
Divorce is especially grim when you have
children — of course it is — which is why
so many people stay together for them,
having resigned themselves to an easier-
in-the-short-term life, with lots of eye-
rolling. If, however, you rip the marital
Band-Aid off, while it will be hard and
takes some adapting to, it can also be
truthful and healthy, empowering even.
I’m lucky. I married a good man, ergo I
divorced a good man. We were no longer
compatible as husband and wife; life had
changed us, the marriage was over, but
because of the children we are bonded for
life. Like a dog, I suppose, the parent of
your children really is for life, not just for
Christmas. We pretty much agreed the
terms of our divorce on a napkin and now
we co-parent and enjoy coming together
as a family for birthdays, school events, an
annual Christmas trip, on one occasion
even a summer holiday.
you sad. I’d made sure I was dressed. Now
we were no longer married, it didn’t feel
appropriate to be in pyjamas, knockers
swinging about freestyle — strange, given
he’d seen me mooing away in labour.
The children were bouncing off the
walls with excitement at the prospect of
opening their presents. I made us cups of
tea, which we washed down with awk-
wardness and a spoon of regret. Having
seen their “little faces”, he went off and I
took them to my family. Later he picked
them up and took them to Leicestershire
to his family for late lunch. They would
stay there until December 28 or so. We
were pretty sure we had it right.
The first time I watched them being
bundled into the car on Christmas Day
was horrendous. It felt so unnatural. I
didn’t know what to do next. I felt so guilty.
Anyone with young children knows that
time to yourself feels incredibly luxurious,
but when you have it, you barely know
what to do with yourself. The contrast felt
particularly marked because for my entireBeing apart for the big day is tough but you can still
ensure everyone is happy, says divorcee Jemma Forte
If that has you reaching for the sick
bucket, know that it has taken effort. We
haven’t got here overnight, but a civil rela-
tionship with the father of my children is
worth more than money, and he has al-
ways acted with dignity and refused to be-
come an “every other weekend” dad. I can’t
tell you how many times I’ve heard people
say how their children come first during a
split before going on to describe bitter legal
wranglings, or terrible behaviours that the
children have had to witness. Perhaps my
childhood has shaped my attitude.
My parents divorced when I was 13. I was
that child who vowed I’d never do the
same... These days I’ve replaced dramatic
vows with promises to do my best. This is
better, more pragmatic and less likely to
make one feel like an abject failure.
After the split, when it came to negotiat-
ing Christmas, I reflected on what had and
hadn’t worked for me as a child. We’d
always had two lots of turkey, one with
each parent, and multiple family days
involving all the grandparents. I remem-
ber it all being nice but quite exhausting. I
envied friends who got to overdose on telly
on Boxing Day, or go for walks. Getting di-
vorced was like restoring factory settings,
a chance to appraise what you did and why.
I decided to always organise something on
Christmas Eve that involved not sitting in
the house. We did ice-skating one year,
carols another, festive lights — it was good.
It was a new tradition; it was my tradition.As a divorcee with divorced parents, I
decided that I only wanted my children to
have one Christmas dinner a year. Other-
wise, a bit like double-barrelled names,
where did things end? If two people with
double-barrelled names marry, how does
that work? Say Smith-Jones marries John-
son-Dudley, that’s a whole lot of name. It’s
the same with Christmas dinners, perhaps,
an ever-increasing spiral of roast potatoes.
The first year after we split I couldn’t
bear to not see the children opening their
presents from Father Christmas. I put an
early bid in for Christmas Eve. My ex
agreed, but I could tell he was crestfallen.
My brain whirred. I wanted to see them on
Christmas morning, he wanted to see
them on Christmas morning, they would
like to see us both on Christmas morning,
so why didn’t we just find a way to all see
each other on Christmas morning? And so
it was that the man I’d shared a home with
for many years came round to mine at
about seven in the morning. He rang the
doorbell. It’s the small things that makec
f hth reachingforthesick‘My children
were halfway
down the
motorway.
Christmas
wasn’t meant to
be like this
I’m not spending
Christmas Day
with my children
Jemma with her
children in 2019Jemma Forte