End of term is not a gentle glide into Christmas. It’s a stampede: “dress-up” days, carol services, class parties, donations, teachers to thank — and the sense that if you stop moving, something will topple. It’s all lovely, it really is. But Christmas arrives with a thousand tiny missions, and I’m the one keeping all the plates spinning. All while my baby Wolfgang watches the carnage from the crook of my arm.

It’s Wolfgang’s first Christmas, and my heart is full of both hope and longing as I try to make it magical for him and for my nine-year-old daughter. He was a long time coming — five years of hoping, trying and keeping going. And now he’s here I love him with a love that steals my breath. I want him to have all the firsts: the tree in the corner, the lights, the strange new multicoloured glow of December. And he takes it all in with his very own wide-eyed seriousness.

Normally I’m organised at Christmas. I’m a lists and wrapping woman. Festive chaos? Fine. Slightly overambitious plans to make everything feel magical? Also fine. I love reading Christmas stories as much as the children love listening to them. I love going to see Father Christmas because it sends me straight back to my own childhood, with that feeling that something good is about to happen.

However, this year feels different. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been so busy building my business while I’m technically on maternity leave that I’ve barely stopped to feel the season arrive. Or maybe it’s because I’m parenting a newborn while also parenting my daughter … while also feeding, napping, commuting, working and trying to remember where I put my phone.

Solo parenting at Christmas isn’t just about doing everything. It’s doing everything during the noisiest, most sparkly time of year, when it can look like everyone else has a second adult to help carry the load. And it’s not rare. In the UK the number of lone-parent families with dependent children was two million in 2024 (ons.gov.uk). Gingerbread, a charity offering support for single-parent families, estimates that one in four families with dependent children are headed by a single parent (Gingerbread).

The practical tasks are relentless: wrapping, stockings (my mum makes those, which is such a weight off), attending the Christmas gymnastics show that clashes with the baby’s nap. But the bigger job is invisible: holding the emotional balance. Making it feel safe. Keeping one eye on my daughter so she doesn’t feel swallowed by baby life, and the other on Wolfgang’s cues so he doesn’t tip into overtired meltdown. Saving the songs that make you cry for the car. Being Father Christmas, magician and therapist.

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And yes, sometimes I catch myself wishing, briefly, for the ordinary family set-up. Not the polished, matching pyjamas version. Just someone to share the load. Someone to hold hands with in church while we sing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Someone to sit beside me on the sofa while we watch a film, and bring me a cup of tea like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

But here’s the other truth, the one I’m clearer about than ever. I don’t want distractions. If it’s a bad relationship, another person to manage, another emotional weather system in the house, I would rather be on my own. I’ve heard so many women say the same, quietly and without drama: I’d rather do it alone than do it badly with someone. Peace is not a small thing. It is the foundation.

I very rarely drink. Not because I don’t want to, but because I want it to mean something. I want it to be a soft end to the day, a glass poured by someone else while I sit down for once. I want it to come with companionship. And right now I am on duty. Nothing is more sobering than a baby waking at 2am when you’ve had half a glass of something and you realise, instantly, you are the only adult in the house. So my Christmas drink is tea. Often lukewarm. Frequently misplaced.

I have always yearned for a big family: a home full of noise and laughter, a kitchen bustling with life. I chose to expand my family with Wolfgang because I wanted to build that life, and I take pride in the choices I’ve made. But Christmas has a way of sharpening whatever is missing. The lights and songs can amplify absence in silent moments, even when you are surrounded by love.

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I can organise the holidays, manage a business, keep everything running, all while wearing a bright smile. One of my daughter’s teachers commented on my constant cheerfulness, and I half-joked, “I’m broken.” She said, “But you always have such a big smile on your face.” That smile helps me to hold it together — and still the question lingers, who looks after me?

This is where I’ve had to shift my perspective. If I dwell too long on what I don’t have, I miss the essence of what I am doing. Because these aren’t just chores. They are the building blocks of memory. I’m not trying to create a picture-perfect Christmas — I’m trying to create a childhood that feels warm and safe and loved.

So I make plans that excite me too. Real, local plans that don’t require a suitcase or a bank loan. Singing carols to the cows at Stroud Community Agriculture (up at Hawkwood), which sounds absurd until you’re there, cold cheeks, woolly hats, cows staring like confused judges. Popping into the Woolpack for a quick hit of adult conversation. Visiting neighbours and family. Small moments collected like kindling. I’m lucky: I have a solid network of friends, and I’ve learnt to lean on them. Not dramatically, just honestly, in the way you pass a baby over for five minutes and feel your nervous system unclench.

And I keep my comforts. I watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation about twenty times throughout December because it makes me laugh, and laughing at someone else’s chaos while yours is happening in real time is oddly medicinal.

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I’m learning, too, to take care of myself in small ways: a bath even when I’m tired, a meal that isn’t eaten standing at the counter, and decent sleep. I am the angel at the top of the tree, and if I wobble, everything wobbles.

Motherhood is brutal and beautiful. It’s the making of me and the undoing of me. It can feel utterly electric, and it can drag me right to the edge of myself. And still I love it.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it too, trust you are doing better than you think. A solo mum at Christmas is a wild ride, but this year I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not because it’s easy. Because it’s ours. And one day my children won’t remember whether the wrapping matched the ribbon. They’ll remember how it felt to be here, held, seen and loved. The eldest sibling laughing. Wolfgang’s serious little face in the glow of the fairy lights.

Don’t scan the room for “the magic”, half-hoping it will arrive. As far as your kids are concerned, it’s already here. It’s you.

Where to get help

Samaritans are there 24/7 on 116 123 (Samaritans). You can text SHOUT to 85258 for free, confidential support (Shout 85258+1). FamilyLine (Family Action) offers support for family and parenting pressures on 0808 802 6666 (Family Action). Pandas offers support for parents affected by perinatal mental illness (Mind). Gingerbread remains a brilliant place for single-parent information and community (Gingerbread)