At 63, Christmas is when being childfree hurts the most ...Middle East

For those of us who are without children, the only thing Father Christmas brings is a month-long bout of festive tears and heartache. During the rest of the year, being childless is manageable. We are all getting along, doing our best. Even my mum friends are empty nesters by now, so coffee catchups come without the side order of “children interruptions” and arriving with baby sick on their jumper. 

For me, the pain of not being a mother normally resides somewhere I can’t get to easily. Tucked away in my subconscious. As the festive season gets under way, my state of societal failure is highlighted in every schmaltzy advert featuring either happy families in front of a roaring fire or children’s wide-eyed gaze as they open presents and greedily eat the last Quality Street, jumping up and down on a festive sugar high. 

At this time of year, I wish I could delete the whole sorry affair and jet off to Miami or some hot spot and soak up the sun rather than crying into my eggnog.

I get that this is the season of goodwill. But my married friends are so preoccupied getting in the turkey and rushing around buying Christmas presents for the family that they haven’t time to worry about childless or single mates.

The truth is, I am out of alignment with everyone else. When I go to my friends Jess and Paul’s for an annual mulled wine and mince pie on Christmas Eve, I meet a medley of middle-aged couples or lone parents, drinking and eating, happy and relaxed as they swap in-jokes about moody teenagers and the fact that they had better look after us when we’re old and infirm.

I will put on my festive face when friends ask how I am. I will reply “absolutely hunky dory” with a slightly too cheery a smile to hide the crushing shame and sadness I feel about being childless.

Yes, I may have avoided years of sleep deprivation, nappy changing and standing on a rugby pitch in the freezing rain. Yes, I have had unparalleled freedom to do what I want, whenever I want. But as pleasurable as all this may be, I would swap it in a nanosecond for the chance to have that feeling of unconditional love for a child.

Like so many NOMOs (not mothers), it is not as if I planned on a life without offspring. But by the time I felt that broody yearning to smell the top of a baby’s head, holding the little bundle in my arms, I had left it all too late. I was 38 and suffered two miscarriages. I found myself on the wrong side of 40, single and without a brood to call my own.

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I am more at peace now, but as we head into December, whilst everyone else is bouncing off the walls with yuletide cheer, wearing flashing antler ears on their head and getting slowly sozzled on cheap champagne, I am watching a slushy romance movie with just a hot water bottle for company.

Last night, one married friend jokingly informed me that, while she is frantically decluttering their flat for the children coming home, her husband is cooking delicious meals and selecting feel-good Christmas films for them to watch.

I know she didn’t do it on purpose. But those sorts of comments don’t help that feeling of festive-aloneness.

Call me a festive partypooper but why bother putting up the decorations when it’s just me and the microwave dinner for one? There will be no tree with fairy lights or baubles in my flat, no tinsel round the living room. As much as I love the sparkly magic of Christmas decorations, every aspect of the entire festive season is a painful reminder of what I don’t have.

To be fair, I wasn’t always such a Scrooge. As the middle child of three sisters, growing up in a large rambling house in Putney, I will always remember us little girls helping my grandparents set out the “special spread” on the long side table, the point being to pinch as much as we could and run upstairs with fistfuls of Maltesers. Of course my father knew what we were doing, but it was all part of the fun. Then, one Christmas morning at 2am, my mother found me sitting in the bathroom and trying to rip my Tiny Tears doll out of the box. She lovingly tucked me back into bed, with the refrain “don’t let Santa know you’re up yet.” I can still feel that warm, fuzzy love. If you have had a golden childhood, the memories never leave you.

But there has never been anyone to recreate those joyful memories with. Yes, I have four nephews and a niece who I love fervently – but it is not the same. Whilst I have always been a super aunty, babysitting, picking them up from school, wiping noses and drying tears, Christmas for me is bittersweet.

I remember several years ago, we were all in Spain for the festive holidays. I was woken up at 5am by my five-year-old nephew, Oskar. He burst into my room. “He’s been. Father Christmas has been,” he shrieked, as he dragged me to the living room to watch him and his brother open their presents. Seeing my little nephews, wide-eyed with joy, was so heart warming. My sister Louise made a pot of strong coffee and we exchanged that complicit “aaah so sweet” smile. But when we all went back to bed for a few hours of much-needed repose, I felt the gaping sense of loss.

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Fast forward to today and I still experience mixed emotions at this time of year. The children are back for the holidays. My sisters are happily buying the Christmas tree, baking homemade mince pies and getting out the wrapping paper.

Of course, I put my own feelings aside on the big day. At 12 noon, I will rock up to my sister Sarah’s house, laden with Christmas crackers, presents and aunty cheer. No basting the turkey or making the stuffing for me. My job is to cajole everyone for our festive family photo – which I then put up on Facebook. There may be a few tears but they are out of sight. We laugh, eat chocolates and drink champagne. And end the day with charades and even a spot of disco dancing.

When the Boxing Day walk is done, and I am able to unwind with a sparkling elderflower cocktail, I will take a deep sigh of relief. It’s all over. Time to get out my sparkly dress and kiss a handsome stranger on New Year’s Eve instead.

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