What it's really like to raise a baby with one mum and TWO dads... all living in the same house

The summer sun floods in through the kitchen doors as we prepare for our son's first birthday party. I'm blowing up balloons. Eddie, Sid's father, is cooking. Meanwhile, Jack, Eddie's partner and Sid's other dad, is on margarita duty.

A glass smashes on the floor. In a flash, I scoop up Sid, Jack clears the broken glass and Eddie pours another drink. 'This,' Eddie smiles, 'is exactly how it was supposed to be.'

It's a stark contrast from my life in 2020. I was 38, single and feeling deep grief at the very real possibility of a child-free life.

It was a leap into the unknown to ask Eddie, my oldest friend, if he and Jack, his long-term partner, would like to have a child with me. I was joyfully surprised when, not only did he say yes – he and Jack wanted to co-parent, too. 

Now we all live together in our home in Hackney, East London. Sid and I have the top floor. Eddie, 45, and Jack, 39, have the floor below, while downstairs is a kitchen and shared family space.

We wanted to live together so Sid knew we were a committed, loving family, and that he was at the very heart of it. Sid calls Jack 'Dada', and Eddie 'Tata' ('Tatai' means Daddy in Eddie's native Filipino).

Our big advantage in co-parenting is we aren't a broken family trying to navigate life post divorce. We're friends, and we work flexibly and intuitively together. We share cooking, but most often Eddie does Sid's bath, stories and bedtime, while Jack does breakfast.

We're lucky that we can all work from home – I'm a travel writer, while the boys run a travel business in the Philippines together. Still, the days are a juggle. We have a childminder two mornings a week, and I often work in the evenings when Sid is asleep. And the night shift is all mine.

While having three parents may not be exactly traditional, some parts of our routine will sound very familiar to many mothers. Lots of the boring baby admin falls to me: form filling, negotiating with nursery, managing spreadsheets of expenses, producing dinner out of nowhere when time runs away with us. And I'm the one mostly covered in baby yuk.

The other day, a microscopic piece of poo got on Jack's shorts while he was changing Sid, and he announced: 'Well that's the first time that's happened.'

I laughed in amazement. There's almost always poo or porridge on me. Jack said ruefully: 'Sorry, I just realised that's up there with complaining that I'm tired.'

So despite bucking the societal norm, we've still fallen into the gendered motherhood trap. I am the primary caregiver – although there's no denying at times it can be hard to navigate decision-making between the three of us.

Motherhood is challenging. I know I'm not as fun or the same as I was before. My risk assessment gene – something that was entirely absent before having a baby – is in overdrive and it can make me snappy and overprotective.

But whenever I worry about the dynamic, I think about my friends in conventional relationships. Our complaints and conundrums are all the same.

Luckily, the boys are great care givers to me and Sid. They are both wonderful fathers.

Rest assured, we didn't enter this arrangement lightly. When Covid lockdowns put an end to dating, it had been a decade since I'd had a serious relationship, and I longed for a child. But could I go it alone?

I signed up to a website to meet potential donors, but it was beyond depressing. Most messages were from men who offered 'natural insemination only' and 'would drive to deliver'. I also made a free account at Cryos International – the world's largest sperm bank, based in Denmark, where prices for sperm begin at around £160.

Then, one day, I met a wonderful woman while out on a walk who had two children with her wife: their friend and next-door neighbour was the donor. I realised I wanted to have a relationship with my child's father, someone to share the joy of parenting with. And I wanted my child to have a relationship with their father, too, even if it wasn't a conventional one.

Eddie and I had met while working in a restaurant 20 years ago. I knew he wanted to be a dad, and I had already seen how natural he was with children. That said, there were significant obstacles – he lives in the Philippines for six months of each year to run his well-established business. And, most pressingly, he had his relationship with Jack to consider.

But I took a deep breath and, in November 2020, I asked him anyway. I couldn't believe it when he replied saying yes. Next came some serious conversations. We downloaded a co-parenting document we found on the internet. Although there is no legal basis to this kind of agreement, it did force us to consider difficult questions regarding the child's education, religion, finances, our wills.

Not to mention dating. I agreed if I ever met someone I'd introduce them to the boys first, and only to the child if it got serious. Now I've got Sid, it seems a remote possibility – dating couldn't be further from my mind.

We planned that we would spend winters in the Philippines while the baby was preschool age, so our child could get to know family and customs there. We also agreed that our child should be educated in the UK.

We planned to see ourselves as two units when it came to decision-making: 'Ellie' and 'Eddie and Jack'. This is so that I can't be outvoted, but also so that Jack can have a voice. It doesn't quite work like that though. Two voices are louder than one, but also Jack can sometimes feel at a loss.

One step which helped cement our bond was for Jack and I to buy our new, shared house together, in November 2023.

This made financial sense, too, as none of us could afford a family home with a garden on our own. We have a Deed of Trust that outlines how we'll divide the profit from any future sale – we recognise that, as Sid grows, we may need to think again.

We also agreed that I would take a year of maternity leave, and while I put my savings into the house, Eddie would take over paying my bills. Now, we have a joint bank account for household expenses.

I don't want to be financially dependent on anyone, and I'll need to work really hard to pay my share and give Sid a great life.

Still, I believe the fact we talked about these terribly awkward things gives us a sounder basis for a family than most heterosexual couples.

Negotiations complete, we came to the act of making the baby. We tried home insemination kits, but without success. Highly aware that the clock was ticking for me, in 2021, we decided to pursue IVF.

We weren't entitled to NHS treatment, and going private can run into tens of thousands of pounds in the UK. Instead, we found a clinic in Eastern Europe, costing about a third of the price.

Only when Eddie and I were there signing papers did I read the small print and realise we'd chosen a country where it was illegal to treat both single women and homosexual couples. Luckily, Jack hadn't come with us.

Filling in the form, I froze: I couldn't remember Eddie's birth date. Was he really called Eddie on his passport, they asked me. I was convinced we'd been found out and I'd be thrown into jail.

The first three rounds of treatment were unsuccessful, leaving us totally broken. Having our final embryo implanted was the very last roll of the dice.

Seven days later, then aged 41, I was sick – and soon realised that I was pregnant.

We were overjoyed, but as my pregnancy progressed, a crisis built. We were all living in my tiny flat during a summer heatwave. The boys – while trying to be helpful – accidentally threw away all the baby clothes we'd been given, and weeks of simmering tensions came to the surface.

They felt I wasn't letting them in. I felt completely dominated.

And even in the final days of pregnancy, it was hard for the boys to really register that I was having a baby. They hadn't done the hypnobirthing class or made the birthing playlist – instead, they'd booked a holiday. When Jack asked my birth coach if contractions would really hurt, it was the catalyst for a fight.

In hindsight, I recognise women become mums the moment they see those two blue lines on a pregnancy test stick. But men become fathers over time. I also recognise that these complaints aren't unique to our situation – but if you think it's frustrating with one man, imagine with two! 

Sid was born on July 2, 2023. A beautiful, elfin creature, and I have never known love like I feel for him. Eddie was my birth partner, and I saw his heart burst into a million pieces as he looked at our baby.

But Sid got an infection just after he was born, and ended up in intensive care for two weeks. It was the most challenging time of our lives. Jack wasn't initially allowed to visit him as he wasn't a biological parent. 

It was only after a week, when we knew Sid would survive, that I could focus on anything but the baby. I went to see the matron and pleaded our case, and in the end the hospital granted us a dispensation for 'one mum, two dads'.

We felt utterly triumphant finally bringing him home. Jack had an ice-cold bottle of rosé and oysters at the ready, things I'd said months before I missed the most. It was so good to be at home, on the sofa, with the boys and our baby.

Eddie was a natural dad, expert at jiggling Sid to sleep and changing his nappies. Jack was unsure of himself at first and carried Sid around like he was a ticking bomb. And they both threw themselves into feeding me up on rich bone broths and nutritious smoothies, washing up, and taking Sid in the mornings so I could sleep.

There's no doubt that Sid is adored – we now argue over who will carry him – but there's no blueprint for this kind of relationship, and we don't get everything right.

We all underestimated the powerful urges of motherhood. We'd agreed that I would breastfeed, and so Sid slept in a crib next to my bed, but I thought, at around six weeks, we'd introduce some bottle feeds and the boys could take over night shifts. Instead, Sid and I started co-sleeping. Most often, we still do.

The boys found this hard. Sometimes they misread me wanting to keep Sid close as me not trusting them, which caused friction.

Now Sid is bigger, we all have special bonds with him. Jack is his playmate. Eddie is his teacher. And I'm his mum. It's the small things we fall down on. Like where to keep the cheesegrater or what time we should eat. Yet everyone, from our friends and immediate family, to Eddie's 100-year-old grandmother, has been supportive.

My mum was a lawyer and my dad is a retired naval officer, who once said he would have liked me to marry a diplomat, so at first I was quite nervous to tell him of my plans. But he broke into a smile and said, 'You'll be the most wonderful mum.'

When I am out with Sid and either Jack or Eddie, people will often mistake them for my partner, and we don't tend to correct them. There's no point in embarrassing people unnecessarily.

We perhaps went a bit too far with my NCT group though – we arrived at the first session too late for proper introductions, and now there's a real chance they may think we are in a threesome.

When I first made our story public, trolls made truly vile comments online. It staggers me that complete strangers can be so hurtful. But I was also inundated with messages of support.

In September, Sid will start at nursery. That same month, the boys will go back to the Philippines to oversee their business there. And Sid and I will join them for Christmas.

I will miss them both dearly. And, of course, raising a child by yourself is really hard work.

But, at the same time, I confess that there's a small sense of relief. Sid and I will slip into our own routine. The responsibility will be 100 per cent mine, so there can be no misunderstanding or miscommunication.

I'd love to have another child, if I'm able to, something I'm talking about with the boys now.

Sid's experience of life will be so unique – mixed race, mixed nationality, gay fathers – that I want him to have someone to share that with.

And we'll always be honest with him about how he came about. I finally have something I thought had passed me by: my own family. One I'm so very proud of.

And here's what dads Eddie and Jack have to say  

WE DIDN'T REALISE HOW MUCH A BABY NEEDS ITS MUM

Jack says: It makes no difference to me that I'm not Sid's biological dad. I'm just as attached and committed as if he was 'mine'.

There were times when I wasn't sure if Sid really knew who I was, but now when he breaks into a huge smile and reaches for me in a room of people, it's an incredible feeling.

In the early days of his life, it was about me and Eddie supporting Ellie. I don't think either of us realised just how much pregnancy and birth can impact a woman, or how much a new baby needs its mother.

Just before Sid was born, after we'd had a bit of a misunderstanding at home, we went to see my brother, who has two kids. I thought he'd understand our complaints, but instead he laid out exactly what our roles should be: you can't love and support a child without first loving and supporting the mum.

Sid got an infection just after he was born, and ended up in intensive care for two weeks. I wasn't initially allowed to visit him as I wasn't a biological parent. That was really hard. All credit to the hospital who allowed us a dispensation for 'one mum, two dads'. I cried when I first saw this tiny little boy – it was only then it became real.

I WANTED MY CHILD TO HAVE THE LOVE OF COMMITTED PARENTS

Eddie says: Having Sid has given me a purpose in life that I didn't have before – it's hard to think how my life would be now without him in it. And we've had so much support from our respective families and friends.

I grew up in the Philippines with my mum and surrounded by loads of aunts and cousins, and really wanted my child to feel the stability and love from committed parents.

And it's important I can give him a sense of his identity, and that he understands my culture.

In April, we took Sid to the Philippines' Mountain Province, the tribal home of my grandparents, for a traditional blessing. He was given the name Tiyang, meaning Light of the House, the name of my great grandfather. It was such a very special moment.