I’ve been separated from the father of my children for 6 years now. At this point separation has become old hat. Maybe too old hat cause I can’t really imagine myself in a relationship anymore. Sharing space with another adult? Being witnessed in my parenting? Trying to collaborate with them in parenting? Gah. Sounds like a lot. And a lot of relationships I see look like barely veiled co-dependence or simple inertia. Then there are the few that I do truly envy and admire. And I think how lucky for those folks. Because, though we don’t love to admit it, most of life is based on nothing loftier than luck.

After the long months (or was it years?) of being cooped up during the pandemic, simply getting to roam free in the world again was thrilling. I remember how, finally being out in wide open spaces essential for boy energy, my favourite thing to say to my sons was “run on ahead.” It’s a line I’m sure many parents relish deploying whenever they can; the subtext is of course closer to something my Scottish grandmother might have said: “get the fuck.” But saying it feels good for good reason. When it comes to parenting, getting distance is a really good metaphor for, well… getting distance.

Aside from handing back a ton of failing essays in my life, I’ve never had to deliver much bad news. When parents decide to separate, having to tell your kids that their lives are about to be turned upside down and inside out, is terrifying. You seek advice, you strategize about when to do it, what to say, what not to say, and try to imagine how such big news will possibly land in little lives. All the while knowing, of course, it’s about something that you want for yourself, at least more than you don’t, that’s pointing you to the pain you’re prepared to inflict.