This isn't Easy for Andy

“This isn’t easy for me,” Andy tells me. He’s just read Whaleback Wedding, Steph’s latest entry on the Uncoupled Blog.

It’s hard for him to read the intimate details of my life with Steph. And not even from me, censored to protect him, but raw and unedited, from Steph.

I think it’s easier for Andy to hear about the tough times, the difficulties, the bad years, then the good times, the sex, and the commitment I had with another man.

Andy says: “You know that I’ve been in love with other women.”

“You mean I’m not your first?”

He laughs. “Nope. I’ve had sex other women and I’ve had fun with other women too.”

I pretend shock. “But not as much fun as with me.”

He keeps going. “I was married – in a church and everything.”

I nod.

“But you don’t have to read about it. I don’t tell you all about it.”

“Do you want to?”

He pauses. “Not really. And I understand that you, as a writer, need to talk about it. To share it with the world.”

“I want to hear whatever you want to tell me about your life,” I tell him. “I want to hear your stories about mountaineering, ice climbing, and walking the dogs. I want to hear about your exes, your relationships, your wedding. Those are all parts of you that I want to know.”

He smiles, and looks at me. I look at him.

It doesn’t really matter who came before me, because here we are right now. All that matters is what Andy learned from the women who came before me, and what that learning brings into our relationship.

And then we stop talking. And start enjoying the exciting and, yes, skilled, lovemaking which comes, let’s face it, thanks to our previous partners. What we’ve learned, discarded, kept, and grown culminates, let’s also face it, in this particular version of us – remarkable, top drawer, very, very fine.


The next morning Andy, Steph, and I meet for breakfast at Floyds on Quadra. I order the Roy McFarlin (like Roy, I always order the same thing: two eggs, potatoes, a piece of toast, coffee). Steph has Listen to Me When I’m Talkin’ to You, Son” (add sausages to mine, and substitute tea), and Andy has the Kilamanjaro (he would) which is a mountain of French toast topped with dollops of whipped cream that look suspiciously like clouds (Steph says, “Can you say 200 and five pounds?”). We laugh. It’s all pretty chilly, actually.

We discuss the boys, the parenting schedule, child care providers, and other details that must be dealt with. Then we do a personal check in. I report on how I’m doing with letting go of the children when they’re with Steph, my piece to struggle with. Steph is sitting every morning and inviting his demons in for tea. Andy admits it’s challenging for him when he reads the Uncoupled blog. “You guys are still very involved with each other, and in trying to figure out your new relationship. Most people would have no relationship with their ex,” he says. “In fact, they’d likely be pissed off and wouldn’t be defending him.” He looks pointedly at me.

It’s true. I appreciate how tricky it is for Andy to accept that the biological parents of children will have a relationship, and it’s up to us all to define that relationship. And that it’s trickier still for Andy that I am in the habit of still looking out for Steph.

I am flooded with love for Andy. Right there in Floyd’s. I honour Andy for his openness. The wide open door of his heart and the open embrace of his arms and his mind that is so adept and flexible. I’m frankly amazed that I found this man – actually he found me a dozen years ago – who can handle me and my whole thing. That he doesn’t only handle it, but he actually directs a lot of it. He’s into it. It's not his first rodeo -- he knows what he wants from me too. It’s pretty cool falling in love at 40-something: there’s still a lot of juice, plus there’s some wisdom gained from all those damn mistakes.

I fell in love with him in like 100 emails. “He’s my ex, you’re my sex,” I wrote to Andy one night in the dark when we were getting reacquainted. I pressed send with god in my fingertips, my pulse at 120. And then I sent him my phone number and as soon as he called, I said I love you. That was exciting too. I know what I have.

And I know that he loves me, just as bad. “I want to hear you say it,” he tells me. “You love me,” I tell him. He nods. “You love me,” I say it again. He laughs. “You love me!” “I do, baby.”

Andy gets that this is about growing up. About, as my friend Jeff says, how mature adult love is the ability to see past the flaws and once again perceive perfection. About living a life that serves as a suitable model for the innocent and sponge-like boys in our care.

As my 44th birthday approaches, I am thrilled to be feeling the original me that has always been here, that doesn’t age, and also that evolutionary self that keeps learning and getting, as the ad says, not older but better.

Steph and I are defining the “ex” thing in a healthy way, pioneering it. And Andy and I are creating our own thing now, just as creatively.