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Forget the pity party! Instead, I hit the beach.

This past Christmas accentuated one of the many complications of divorce — sharing children. My ex and I both wanted our kids. The ex’s celebration offered a ski house in Park City filled with grandparents, uncles, aunts and close cousins. Mine, in cold but snow-free Richmond, Virginia, had none of the above. Utah won.

Socially, my first holiday solo looked bleak: My parents had passed away, and I had no date for parties. With kids 2,000 miles away and a brother visiting his fiancée’s parents in Boston, I faced celebrating Jesus’ birthday with only my dog and incontinent cat for company. A pity party loomed.

Divorced almost two years, I still struggled with the intensified demands that came with being a single mom — the full-time job, two kids with busy after-school schedules, needy pets, a historic house with old pipes, no time for myself, bills, bills, bills. And I’d never been on my own, with or without kids. My marriage began the week after I graduated from college. I traded three roommates for a husband. Now over 40, I was challenged by obstacles that many women face earlier: how to balance a checkbook (use checks with carbons), change air filters (this should happen every month — who knew?) and mow my lawn (hire someone). But beyond these basic life management skills, I still hadn’t figured out my identity as a single person.  And now I was looking at the specter of an incredibly depressing Christmas.

So instead of the pity party, I used the money that should’ve gone toward bathroom plumbing to hire a pet sitter and book a trip to Tulum. Water and sunshine always rejuvenate me, and this resort touted an all-inclusive fitness program and healthy meals. It was the opposite of a traditional Christmas with snowy pines, fireside carols and a five-course holiday dinner, but why not?

The white-sand beach at Tulum proved close to paradise with clear water such a perfect shade of blue that it blended into sky. I’m used to the dark, drab Atlantic where you’re glad you can’t see your feet for all the sea debris brushing past your bare legs.

As promised, I delighted in platters of fresh fruit, vegetables, grilled fish and granola-sprinkled yogurt. Pre-selected meals meant my only decision each day was how many exercise sessions to attend. Ongoing classes began with an early morning beach walk and ended after sundown with either yoga or meditation. I sampled everything and fell for kickboxing, salsa dancing and circuit boot camp.

I fondly remember my Latino salsa teacher who crooned that I had sexy moves (he said this to everyone, but I still drank it in) and my kickboxing instructor who complimented my POWER when I punched the pad in his hand. In between workouts, I swam in the warm, turquoise ocean and napped in hammocks hung between palms.

I created my own mini-version of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir, Eat, Pray, Love, where after a divorce, the author travels to find herself through good food, exercise and soul-searching. My respite lasted only a week, not the almost-year Gilbert spent circumventing the globe. Yet a legitimate transformation occurred. My worries lifted. I felt empowered, grounded and more energized. I learned a lesson; I didn’t need anyone else to make my music.

I wanted to be with my kids and family in Utah (after 20 years of marriage, I will always think of my in-laws as family), but I proved that I could turn around a glum situation to appreciate life and my own vitality. I still don’t know who I am on my own — that journey lies ahead — but Tulum gave me a jump-start.

I returned to Richmond with a calmness I thought disappeared forever with adulthood. A simple Google search later, I found salsa dancing, kickboxing and boot camp classes all over our city. Committed to a burgeoning healthy relationship with myself, I signed up. These things were in my backyard all along. Sometimes you need to leave, if only briefly, to reconnect to self and home.

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Photo by  Angel Origgi on Unsplash

Our son has a Christmas tree at his dad’s. Am I OK with this?

For parents of different faiths, December often brings holiday challenges. In a family affected by divorce, challenges can be amplified if parents have joint custody.

Before we married, my ex-husband and I decided we would have a Jewish home. He grew up in a secular family who celebrated Christmas with no religious significance, so we decided we’d spend Christmas with his parents but would not observe it ourselves. He agreed — but he really wanted a Christmas tree, the seasonal decoration that reminded him of his favorite childhood memories.

Though I knew some Jews who had Christmas trees in their homes, this was not the tradition in my family. In fact, I was raised with the precept that it was inappropriate to have a Christmas tree in a Jewish home. I didn’t feel jealous of my friends who had a tree, but I did enjoy the tradition, helping my friend Andrea and her family decorate their tree and sipping hot cocoa next to a cozy fireplace with the smell of fresh pine in the air.

But when we were getting married and thinking of starting a family, I couldn’t reconcile my need to assert my Jewish identity with the idea of having anything remotely Christian in my home. I stubbornly insisted there be no tree, and he reluctantly gave up, embracing the traditions of candlelight and latkes instead.

Now that we’re divorced, our son spends four nights a week with me and three nights with his dad. He attends a Jewish pre-school, where he learns all about Jewish holidays and traditions — and, in keeping with our pre-marital agreement, spends Christmas with his father and grandparents. Since our separation, my ex-husband has resumed the tradition of having a Christmas tree in his home. However, he has also been dedicated to observing Hanukkah, putting up equal amounts of blue and silver stars as he does red and green holly. He even lights a menorah with our son whenever they’re together on Hanukkah; this year, the three of us lit candles to commemorate the first night.

While I appreciate the equity with which my ex-husband observes the holidays, I worry that our son will become confused about his religious identity. Recent conversations with him have magnified these concerns:

“Mommy, why don’t you have a Christmas tree like Daddy?”

“Because I’m Jewish and Daddy’s not. I celebrate Hanukkah, and Daddy celebrates Christmas.”

“But Daddy celebrates Hanukkah, too.”

How can I explain why his father celebrates both holidays but his mother doesn’t? I expressed to my ex-husband my concern with how we’ve been discussing the holidays and my desire to be unified in our approach. I told him I feel uncomfortable saying he is “Christian” because he’s not, really — and I don’t want to define him as “not Jewish” because it’s odd to define someone by what they aren’t rather than what they are. He responded thoughtfully that these discussions should be centered around diversity, suggesting that we should say:

“There are all different kinds of people in the world, who have different beliefs and celebrate different things, and that’s what makes the world so interesting… and everybody has a right to believe in what they want, as long as they don’t hurt anyone else.”

I liked this answer, which was keeping with the values I hoped we were instilling in our son.

He continued, “We could explain that you don’t have to be Jewish to celebrate Hanukkah, and you don’t have to be Christian to celebrate Christmas. If a friend or family member observes any holiday, it’s nice to help them celebrate.” He compared this to helping someone celebrate their birthday, even if it’s not your own — an idea I knew would make sense to our almost-4-year-old son.

Our conversation made me doubt my previous stance. Had my thinking been too tribal? After all, the origins of the Christmas tree are neither Jewish nor Christian, per se, but an amalgam of traditions translated across centuries. According to Encyclopedia Britannica, “The use of evergreen trees, wreaths, and garlands to symbolize eternal life was a custom of the ancient Egyptians, Chinese, and Hebrews.”

Why couldn’t we, as he suggested, simply commemorate one another’s rituals? And if my Hebrew ancestors had beautiful evergreen trees in their homes, why couldn’t we? Though I had hoped to have a singularly Jewish home and family, the reality has played out differently, as is the case for so many families in this diverse landscape of modern life. My ex-husband’s approach is idealistic at its core — to live in a world where we can all maintain our individual beliefs and traditions while celebrating our differences.

But can we celebrate our differences without diluting the traditions we hold dear? This is the question most interfaith families face, especially in December. I have started to think that observing a secular Christmas will not diminish a lifetime of Jewish education and rituals. The most vital thing to me is that my son values his Jewish identity while respecting others’ traditions. Maybe decorating a tree at his dad’s house won’t take that away from him, after all.

Follow Annette Powers on Twitter: www.twitter.com/annettepowers

Photo by  Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Since my divorce, I’ve been creating a new Valentine’s tradition

I know Valentine’s Day is a silly greeting card holiday that shouldn’t really matter to me — and yet, it does. As a single woman, all the hearts and flowers can be a painful reminder of what I don’t have. As a divorced woman, they can be an even more painful reminder of what once was.

Our first Valentine’s Day in 2004 was incredible. We had only been dating for six months when he surprised me with a trip to Boston and a weekend at an exquisite boutique hotel in historic Beacon Hill. Our room had a fireplace, a chaise lounge, and a marble bathroom complete with his-and-hers bathrobes. We ordered room service and had chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne. It was totally cliché, but I was in heaven.

The Valentine’s Days that came after that weren’t quite so extravagant, but they were always lovely. We’d usually plan a nice evening out with dinner and tickets to a concert or a play, exchanging cards in which he’d written something exceedingly romantic. He had a knack for making all holidays special, but Valentine’s Day was especially sweet because it was a celebration of us, of our relationship and our love.

The first Valentine’s Day after our abrupt separation was rough. It had been merely seven months since I discovered his affair, and already, he was jetting off to Puerto Rico to celebrate the holiday with his girlfriend. I pictured them sipping piña coladas on the beach while I was home taking care of our son and bemoaning my newly single status. Where were my flowers and chocolates?

But more than the trappings of romance, what I truly missed were the little ways we showed affection to one another — not just on Valentine’s Day, but every day. Little rituals like saying, “I love you” every night before bed, calling each other silly pet names and cuddling with our son under our fluffy down comforter. It had already been so painful to learn that he had trashed our marriage, which we had celebrated together with friends and family, but I was distraught over the loss of all those everyday rituals as well.

The next year, I decided I needed to find a new way to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Instead of dwelling on what I no longer had, I would focus on what I did have — amazing friends and a good sense of humor. With my ex-husband on parent duty for the night, I went out to dinner and to a Valentine’s comedy show with one of my best friends.

I was planning to revisit my new Valentine’s ritual this year, but when my ex and I made up our parenting schedule for February, he asked if our son could stay with me that night. He rationally explained, “I was on parent duty last year, so I was hoping you could be this year.” He had a point. We usually try to be fair about alternating holidays, but nothing about this situation felt fair to me.

Not only did he have the opportunity to celebrate with someone else, but he was denying me the opportunity to go out with my friends and possibly meet a future Valentine.

“Can’t you have a romantic dinner at home or celebrate on another night?” I asked, very envious of the fact that he could do both. I told him about my plans to go to an event where I might be able to meet single people — and of course, I reminded him that he had no such need. Perhaps, I thought, Valentine’s Day is more important for singles to meet one another than for couples to celebrate what they have and can enjoy every day.

In the end, my ex-husband agreed to be on parent duty, and I offered to help find a babysitter if he still wanted to go out.

Now, I find myself excited for a day that many single people dread. Sure, I’d love to receive flowers and chocolates from that special someone. Even more than that, I’d be content to do nothing at all on February 14th and celebrate a loving, healthy relationship the other 364 days of the year. I’m surprised that I’m not more jaded and am still open to feeling the sting of Cupid’s arrow. But until then, I’ll enjoy celebrating with my friends and all the other single folks out there.

Photo by  Kay on Unsplash