By Caroline Harroe (CEO)
There are approximately one million tiny, glittering traditions packed into the month of December, and as a single parent, I am the chief orchestrator, the executive director of logistics, and the designated emotional anchor for all of them.
It’s not that I lack help; it’s that I am the only one holding the blueprint for five very different, very brilliantly wired brains. And every year, around the time the first carol starts playing in the pharmacy aisle, I feel the familiar, heavy weight of the mission statement: I must provide everything.
That word, everything. It hangs in the air, mocking the carefully arranged pile of bills on the kitchen counter. It implies a perfect tree, a mountain of precisely chosen, non-scratchy presents, the flawlessly timed delivery of festive meals (which, for us, must include at least three safe food options), and the emotional fortitude to absorb every single sensory and emotional spike.
I am not what anyone would call ‘fun.’ I am capable, yes. Strong, undeniably. I can triage a meltdown while simultaneously glazing the Wellington and figuring out the quickest exit route from a crowded market. But fun? Fun is a luxury, an inefficiency I rarely budget for.
The real exhaustion of being the solo parent during the holidays isn’t just financial – though, Lord knows, the sight of five names on a gift list is enough to make the wallet weep. The true cost is the emotional budget.
Every single decision is mine to make and mine to absorb:
- Do the flashing lights trigger? I buy the static ones, then spend an hour convincing the others that ‘subtle’ is the new ‘exciting.’
- Does the abrupt schedule change send my son into a tailspin? I spend the preceding week crafting a visual schedule that looks less like an itinerary and more like a military operation.
- Is the social pressure of the gathering too much for five of them? I plan our exit strategy before we even arrive, giving us a polite five-minute window to bolt without burning bridges.
The pressure to ‘provide everything’ transmutes from buying things into becoming the container for all their chaos and their calm. I become the human noise-cancelling headphone, the living routine, the emotional shock absorber.
What they actually need – what I truly provide – is the unshakeable certainty that I see them. I see the effort required for my son to sit still through the main course. I see the pure, uncomplicated joy in my daughter’s face when she receives a gift that appeals to her exact, deep-dive interest. I see the sheer force of will my littlest employs to survive the demands of a social gathering.
I can’t give them a perfect, smooth, picture-book Christmas. I can’t erase the sensory overload of the world or the complexity of their unique processing systems. But I can provide the safe landing. I can provide the permission to retreat. I can provide the unwavering knowledge that when they inevitably need to discard the social mask, I am here, standing firmly at the periphery of the chaos, telling them: ‘This is our Christmas. We make the rules. And your sanity is the most important ornament on the tree’.
The gifts will fade. The wrapping paper will become landfill. The bills will eventually be paid. But the provision that truly matters – the tireless, quiet offering of understanding and acceptance –that’s the inheritance I’m building. And unlike the toys, that’s one thing that will last.
