Some days co-parenting feels like walking a tightrope: balancing my son’s joy, his mom’s expectations, and my own mistakes. This was one of those days.
My son is stubborn. When he gets something in his head, there’s no changing it. It’s part of what makes him strong, but it’s also something we’re working on together: being more mentally flexible and learning to let others lead sometimes. That stubborn streak shaped how this afternoon went.
He’s been that way since the day he was born. During labor, the midwife determined that he was holding onto his umbilical cord. Every time there was a contraction, he’d tighten his grip until his heart rate dropped low enough for him to pass out. Then he’d release it, his heart rate would recover, and the cycle would start again. After many tense hours, they opted for a C-section. When I placed him on his mother’s chest afterward, the attending nurse watched him snuggle in, bump his body around to get comfortable, and said, “He likes what he likes. I can see that in him.” It was the first clear sign that our son was stubborn and wanted what he wanted.
It started simple enough. His birthday was tomorrow, and he’d been milking the “birthday week” for all it was worth. When I picked him up from camp, his mother texted asking if I had plans for him. I didn’t. She said she wanted to head to the Y at five to meet a friend and let our kids swim together. Sounded good to me, I’d even get a swim in myself.
When I told him we were going home so he could swim with his friend, he shook his head. “I don’t want to swim. But can we get a Holy Donut for my birthday?”
It was 3:38. We had time. But when we got to the Holy Donut, it was closed.
No problem, I thought. But he wasn’t giving up on birthday week treats. “What about Ben & Jerry’s?” he asked. I said no, no ice cream before dinner. But I offered a deal: we’d stop at Whole Foods, grab some cones, and get ice cream there, and he could eat it after dinner.
So we did. We picked up jerky for a snack, popcorn for later, and his ice cream. Then we headed home.
Ten minutes from the house, traffic came to a sudden stop on the highway. A mess of brake lights. We narrowly avoided a big accident. My son yelled from the back seat, “We almost got into an accident!” just as my phone buzzed.
It was his mom. “What’s taking so long?” she asked.
“We’ll be home in a few minutes, before five,” I said.
She sighed. “It’s not worth going to the Y now. I thought you’d be home sooner.”
By the time we got home, I told my son, “Go talk to your mom, maybe she still wants to go.”
But he shook his head. “I don’t want to go to the Y.”
Inside, he disappeared into his room, while his mom sat working on her laptop. A minute later, he burst back out, shoving me toward the door. “We’re doing a water gun fight,” he announced.
I laughed and told him I needed to change first, and make a quick work call in my car.
That’s when it happened.
As I walked through the house to change, his mother stood up from the couch, looked at me, and loudly whispered:
“You are such an asshole. I hate you.”
She walked away before I could respond, leaving me standing there stunned and frustrated, caught between wanting to defend myself and knowing it would only escalate things.
I changed, went to the car, and started my call. She came outside, made sure I saw her, leaned toward my window, scowled, and flipped me off before walking into the greenhouse.
My son climbed into the car a few minutes later. “Mom’s in the greenhouse,” he said. And then, as if nothing had happened, he grinned: “Ready for the water gun fight?”
We spent the next hour laughing, running through the yard, spraying each other until we were soaked. He finished the evening sitting under the outdoor shower, talking quietly to himself and playing with the water for 45 minutes.
When I finally went inside, his mother confronted me again. “You’re completely inconsiderate,” she said. “I shouldn’t let myself be surprised or angry—you just do whatever you want.”
I stayed calm. “I thought I was home in time for you to go to the Y. But you’re right—I should have texted you from the highway. That’s on me. I’ll communicate better next time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Three Sides to Every Story
I’ve always believed there are three sides to every story. Like a coin, there’s Heads and Tails—two people’s versions of what happened—and then there’s the truth, which lives in the edge between them.
The truth here is that I was late. I should have texted. I could have been clearer about how long we’d be. That’s my side of the coin.
Her side? It isn’t really about being late. She’s been hurt before—deeply. She had a kid with a man who wouldn’t show up for days, didn’t communicate, and even taught his son to lie to her. That kind of betrayal leaves scars. So when I don’t text, it doesn’t just feel like poor communication—it feels like old wounds reopening.
And then there’s the edge of the coin—the part I have to live on for my son’s sake.
Because he doesn’t need whispered hate in the living room. He needs laughter in the yard—the kind we shared as we darted between trees, soaked from head to toe, his belly-laugh echoing louder than the spray of the water guns. He needs parents who can own their mistakes, even when it’s uncomfortable. He needs a father who stays calm when things get messy.
What I Learned
Co-parenting isn’t about winning arguments. It’s about breaking old cycles, even ones you didn’t create. And yes, I certainly had my part in why we are no longer together. I’ve made mistakes, learned from them, and am doing the work to grow past those old wounds and cycles.
For me, that means apologizing when I’m wrong, even if I’m frustrated. It means remembering that her anger isn’t really about me; sometimes it’s about a past I didn’t live, but still have to navigate. And, most importantly, it means choosing to focus on the moments that matter: the water gun fight, the outdoor shower, and the little boy who, for 45 minutes, was perfectly happy just being a kid.
That’s the story he’ll remember. And that’s the story I want to keep writing.
Mindful Dad Life 