Last year I was initiated into the resolutely 'me-first' Christmas. I was not able to spend Christmas Day with my three children, ages twelve, fourteen and seventeen.
They've spent the day trading parents since we divorced five years ago. I had to accept their other life, and they accepted mine.
Of course, I called them halfway through the festivities and tried to chat, but it dawned on me that they were overjoyed doing their own thing, which only fueled me to do the exact same thing.
Plus, the ten hours of sleep I got on Christmas Eve was a first and more than made up for any guilt.
It turned out to be the year of my most rebellious Christmas. I spent it with a dear friend, also in her late forties, also divorced, in the country house where I live in Gloucestershire.
Daisy Finer shared it with a good friend and enjoyed a Christmas last year that felt positively student-like
It was glorious, unapologetically just the two of us. No children, no great aunts, not even a dog. Our ex-husbands were forced to raise a finger – to put on the stockings (the biggest relief) and entertain their various relatives. The Christmas we enjoyed felt positive as a student.
That's why I'm bringing last year's lessons into this year, at my parents' home, where I can become a child again.
Being under my mother's protective wing this Christmas means I can avoid (another) luxury holiday. She is an alchemist at the Aga and we can expect seven to eleven vegetables and as many puddings.
The kitchen is her domain and if I so much as peel a Brussels sprout, I'm probably doing it wrong. One time I pre-greased all the unblemished halves of toast that accompanied the smoked salmon starter, a big mistake as apparently each guest should do their own at the time of eating.
My father is quietly just as interested in Christmas as my mother is. He helps me carry the presents, I don't have to build a fire or empty the bin, and he will entertain the grandchildren endlessly.
Best of all, he shows up every morning at the door of the bedroom I grew up in, in his dressing gown, as if he were my long-standing chattering and elderly butler, called Jeeves, and 'madam' (me) a cup of tea delivers. . Getting a cup of tea is such a treat it could make me cry.
I can trust my parents to make Christmas completely magical precisely because they don't do anything half-heartedly. That's not to say Christmas can't be emotionally charged.
This year, however, I have a plan for that. When the going gets tough, I plan to relax and get zen with a bit of Vedic meditation, which I usually practice twice a day for 20 minutes.
Who cares if I'm branded a hippie? Decompressing is what my me-mas is all about.
As mothers and givers, having no one to care for was a complete novelty for my girlfriend and me last year.
As off-duty mothers, having no one to care for was completely new for Daisy and her friend (stock image)
I didn't dare tell my mother that dinner was a fancy ready-made ensemble from the frozen food store Cook, or that the bread sauce came from a packet and was damn delicious. All I had to do was add milk!
On the day, my boyfriend and I woke up late – no kids screaming in our faces at 4am. My girlfriend gave me the best me-time stocking ever, full of girly treats.
We planned to have a poached egg brunch and our Christmas meal around 5pm. But guess what? We spontaneously threw that plan overboard.
Instead, we skipped breakfast and went for a frantic walk. It rained like a monsoon. We got home, I had the best hot bath of my life and then slowly started eating Christmas lunch.
No one asked us how long it would take. Which was a shame in a way. Pierce and… ping! Red currant jelly. Sauce. Premade filling. It all tasted surprisingly good. Normal even.
Then it was time for the very first King's Speech, which is what we should have been concentrating on, except we were already on the floor, with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape on the floor. I don't even drink.
We talked all afternoon. How much it had cost to free ourselves from our unhappy marriages. How difficult it was to break with convention. The judgments we faced (“it's not like he hit you,” a friend told me).
We talked about having to consciously choose for ourselves, and in doing so, consciously causing pain for our children. And yet we also knew that we had to show them the way. That tradition is not everything.
Last year we consciously took the hassle out of Christmas by experiencing it the way we wanted. We have created time.
As single, hard-working moms juggling a ton of plates, neither of us felt guilty. Why bother sending cards to those who hadn't been there for us? This was our time.
If this year's festivities get overwhelming, Daisy plans to get away and get zen with a touch of Vedic meditation (stock image)
Most women I know are desperate for more time – for themselves and for each other.
A certain sense of duty in life is important and we are not here just to please ourselves. But there should be a special place in heaven for every working parent who flies alone.
And if you can take a shortcut, find your 'no', to become a happier and therefore better person, by spreading love instead of projecting pent-up stress, then why not?
As for this year, no matter what happens during the intense three-day period that distills Christmas, one thing will get me through, and this is the best of them all.
Once it's done and the kids are back with their dad for the rest of the holidays, I'll hop on a plane to India for my own mini version of Eat, Pray, Love.
The sun will shine. The sea will be close. I have no plans except to do what I love. And why not? Before I know it, I'm back to the grayness of the school run.
Every mother deserves to take some me-time when she can, especially at Christmas.