This will be the second Christmas where I’ve woken up alone. And rather than wallow in self-pity I decided, last year, to find my own traditions, my own way to celebrate, to fill those empty hours until the kids arrive for dinner.

So I got up, went for walk around the neighbourhood, watching the local kids ride their new bikes, headed up into the bush and appreciated a beautiful morning. I came home, picked those first tomatoes, sliced myself some ham, toasted a nice slice of sourdough, scrambled a couple of eggs, put the kettle on, played some carols (thanks Michael Buble for dropping by) and enjoyed a long, leisurely breakfast reading a book I had bought myself.

The kids were coming over for dinner and I spent the next few hours cooking our little feast for three. I’m hopeless, I still do a ham, a roast (it’s a maple infused pork loin this year and the lads from Lyneham Meat Centre have thrown in extra crackling for me), vegetables and salad and a pavlova to die for. It was ridiculous. But it meant, once they had left, I didn’t have to cook for a week so maybe it was the most sensible thing I could have done.

There’s no denying that waking up on Christmas morning by yourself is one of the worst things in the world. Indeed the loneliness probably sets in on Christmas Eve when you’re left to wrap presents by yourself, with only Denis Walter and Marina Prior for company on the television. Having to work out how to assemble things (and thanks to those secret elves who pop over and help you assemble things  from Ikea or ping pong tables at the last minute. Eternally indebted.) You eventually head off to bed for what else is there to do.

After 14 or so years of having the kids rush in before dawn, already in a frenzy, jumping up and down on the bed, wanting to open presents, waking up without that reminds you that things are indeed different now.

But increasingly so, I’m accepting that things are different. That doesn’t mean they’re any worse. My daughter is pulling a five-hour hospitality shift on December 25, serving those sensible people who are outsourcing Christmas lunch. My son, in his teenage stupor, will probably sleep til noon if he’s left too.

Christmas with teenagers is different, regardless of whether or not I am alone. Sure we have still put up the advent calendar and their stockings are on their door handles, we make a point of putting up the Christmas tree together, we talk about what food we might serve, what presents we’re thinking about getting other people, make time to catch up with friends, crash on the lounge and watch bad action movies, make lists of what we might like, I still buy the holiday Lego, we get a photo with Santa. (Now there’s 18 of them strung on a piece of tinsel across the kitchen wall.) Some things will never change. Never.

But some things will. When my daughter said she wanted me to pay to get something in her car fixed for Christmas I knew the days of Polly Pocket and pool toys were over.

I know now it won’t be long til I’m waking up every Christmas morning on my own, that the time when they have families and lives of their own is closer than I’d like to think, and so what’s the point of being miserable about it.

Find new traditions, buy yourself presents, cook what you like, enjoy your own company, spend hours on the lounge reading that book you bought, regift it on Boxing Day, visit friends, and when the time comes when you do have company, cherish every moment you have.

Merry Christmas everyone.