Divorced parents is double jeopardy

you had to squeeze yellow shapes into (mainly because as a 26-year-old, it for some reason was harder than it should have been for me to complete) and like I’m really going to squeeze into a size 8 month-old onesie.

My 26th Christmas was a big wake up call. And by the 28th, my Christmas excitement was changing. I was now a fully fledged father after a second daughter had arrived. This was going to be our first Christmas as a family-of-four. My selfish double-present younger self had gone. I now had a family to impress, to focus on, and to buy for excitedly. Christmas was going to be AWESOME.

But, because my parents are divorced, come November I’m already pulling out my hair because of the multiple family discussions on where and what time we are doing ‘‘Mum’s Christmas’’.

‘‘Nah, cos Dad’s doing his then.’’

‘‘Maybe we could do his on the 22nd.’’

‘‘Nah, I’m at the TK pub,’’ my brother replies.

Extra Christmas parties mean more road trips with two kids under two, more Christmas plates of food to prepare, more kids’ bags to pack, more nappies to change without the use of my brilliantly assembled standing change table.

The days of double-gifts seem long gone – instead, it’s double the parties to plan, double the stress, double the travel, double the packing.

Double the gifts for the kids also doubles the amount of sharp objects on the floor, which equals double the amount of hobbling around the house muttering in pain, which equals double the amount of tidying up.

And now this Christmas will be my first with three kids.

I probably should have realised this back in 1995 – it sucks that my parents are divorced.

So, Mum and Dad, it’s been 23 years, maybe we try and do a combined Christmas next year? 23 years is a long time – I could bring a medal, or a packet of chips.

Or, go back to each buying me a separate present and we can forget this whole column thing ever happened. Love, Jordan.

Merry Christmas everyone.