This year will be the second Christmas in Skye’s life that we will not be together. I’ve never really loved to share, so sharing my daughter for holidays is far from among my favorite things to do.

Yet, I really should be used to sharing Christmas by now.

I have been sharing Christmas my whole life, because it doubles as the day I was born. Let me just say, sharing a birthday with Jesus isn’t always ideal. Actually, it kinda sucks. Yes I get to open presents twice that day, once in the morning for Christmas and again in the evening for my birthday. I still get cake and am guaranteed quality time with my family. But the day is never my own.

As a kid, my parents would throw me a party for my friends a few weeks before the holiday break. This ensured I still got to enjoy all the fun birthday party rituals, but it was always hard to forget that it wasn’t actually my birthday. That day was still weeks away, and one I knew would get slightly overshadowed by the usual Christmas hoopla.

Now as a single parent, I also have to share my daughter – on the same day that my capacity for sharing is already at its tipping point.

I think seeing your child’s eyes light up as they take in all their presents under the tree is one of the absolute best parts of being a parent. The phrase “happy as a kid on Christmas morning” is common for good reason.  It’s a frenzy of ripping wrapping paper and attempting to play with every toy at once.

Trying to co-parent is hard, and for me sharing holidays is one of the most difficult parts. Mostly it takes a lot of compromise, as well as understanding. Both things much easier to accomplish if you’re on good terms with your fellow parent.

This year, Skye’s dad stayed an extra day when he came to get her and we had our own mini pre-Christmas celebration a few weeks early. He and I both realize that we’re lucky to have the kind of relationship that allows us to do something like that. And as much as I loved getting to watch Skye experience Christmas with both of her parents surrounding her, something that hasn’t happened since her first one, I could never fully make myself forget that it wasn’t actually Christmas.

That day is still a couple weeks away, and one that I won’t be able to hold my daughter or see that complete, unadulterated joy light up her face.

I know I should be used to sharing Christmas by now, but I’m just not. There’s this little selfish voice inside of me that likes to lament about the injustice of it all. “I already share my damn birthday with the holiday, why should I have to share my daughter too?”

Because it’s what’s fair, I always answer, and I should just be grateful that my daughter has two parents who’d do anything to make sure her holidays are always special. I know it’s true, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

It doesn’t make me want to share.

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