The craziest thing about this story is that it's true. It was the beginning of 2020, and my ex-wife and I were in a rough spot. By that point, we were sleeping in separate rooms, and things were tense between us. I was struggling with drug addiction and behaving selfishly. She was feeling angry and resentful toward me. The prior two years caring for our son had placed a lot of strain on our relationship and exposed the broken parts. We were both exhausted and wanted out, but we were scared. Scared for ourselves, scared for our son. She was sad that she wouldn’t get the family she wanted, that our son wouldn’t have a sibling to stay connected to through our breakup. And so, in our lowest low, we decided to do something a little crazy. We agreed to have a baby together. I’d knock her up, we’d live together for the first year of the baby’s life, and then we’d split. And that’s what we did. It sucked.

But it was worth it. Our sons are best friends. Life without both of them seems impossible. My ex and I are chill and live a mile from one another and see the kids all. the. time. Everything worked out. Even the boys know the score--the story of Leif's conception. In fact, just the other day, Finley, who’s seven, was nursery rhyming about it on our drive to the grocery store, singing from the backseat:

"Mama and Papa sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes love, then comes the breakup, then comes the baby in the baby carriage!"

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