Pals over partners: the rise of the 'Friend Parent'

Socialite and model, Lady Victoria Hervey, recently announced that she had frozen her eggs in the hope of conceiving a baby through IVF – not with a partner, but with a friend, who has also agreed to be involved in raising the child.

Having hoped to meet someone with whom to have a child in the traditional way, Hervey felt that at 41, with ‘someone’ not yet having materialised, it was time to take matters into her own hands. 

Sound like an off the wall idea? Actually, having a baby with your friend, and then sharing their care – known as ‘platonic co-parenting’ – is becoming, if not commonplace, certainly an increasingly popular option for single broody women and men. 

The Stork is one of a growing number of introduction agencies set up for people wanting to do just that. With a £10,000 subscription fee, it’s not hard to tell what kind of clientele they’re targeting, but once committed (if you can commit to that kind of money) you choose from two options: either a platonic co-parent or a ‘forever partner’ – that is, a baby and a romantic partnership combined. 

Of course, who’s to say (and this is coming from someone who has done more than her fair share of internet dating) that the romantic partnership would get off the ground, never mind last. But I can shed light on what those choosing the other option might expect, since 14 years ago – albeit unintentionally – it happened to me. 

Chris and I became close when I was a 27-year-old magazine journalist and he was a 34-year old photographer, and our friendship segued into an on/off sexual relationship that went on for 18 months. I suppose we loved one another as people, and hoped romance might grow – by the time we ultimately realised that it wouldn’t, I was pregnant. 

At 29 and with many more fertile years ahead of me, I was, I admit, still full of romantic idealism when I held that positive test in my hand in a Starbucks loo on my way to work. The traditional way of things: meet love of life, get married, have two kids and live happily ever after, was not just what I expected, I believed it was my right.

Now 44, and still the best of friends with the father of my 13-year old son, perhaps the greatest thing I have learnt (not least, having seen friends become divorced, widowed and childless – be that happily or not) is that life does not owe us anything, and I am extremely lucky to get as much as I’ve got.

Chris and I were never in any doubt that we wanted this baby, even if that was under separate roofs, and our parents were all supportive, but in the beginning, it felt like my worries were multiplying as fast as the cells in my womb.

For one, I lived in a house full of still-partying twenty-somethings, so I had to find my own place, fast. For another, most people presumed (some still do!) that we’d just stop being ridiculous and get together in the end, which only added to the pressure. 

I remember after my 12-week scan, we drifted on dazed auto-pilot into Waterstones’s Pregnancy and Birth section where couples – her with bump –  seemed to be stroking one another’s faces whilst they browsed. One book suggested that my partner rub almond oil on a particularly intimate body part to prepare for birth, which seemed a tall order for any man, let alone one who was only a friend. 

So many articles told me that becoming parents was the toughest challenge for any couple, and they, presumably, had the glue of sex to keep them together. I hated to think our friendship might not survive, since I valued it so highly; my greatest fear was that we’d become warring exes, but without the married bit first.

It turned out I’d hugely underestimated us: as my pregnancy progressed, so did our friendship. We became closer, bonded by the excitement of our impending new arrival. When our son, Oscar finally did arrive in December 2004 – Chris supporting me through every contraction – we were as overjoyed and daunted as any parents. 

As any parent will also tell you however, pregnancy and birth are the easy parts. It’s the 13 years following that have been the real test for our unconventional set-up.

Practically, I suppose we’ve had to learn strategies which any separated or divorced parents living in two different houses have to: enough clothes and school uniform for two homes; sharing calendars on Google calendar (a life saver); lots of open communication about school events and World Book Day (“could try harder” would describe our performance in this area, but that’s more to do with us both being scatty than not being together.) 

The difference with us, I guess, is that because Chris and I are friends, not ‘exes,’ we’ve always spent time together as a family, not to mention spending time as mates ourselves. So, beers after parents’ evening, Christmases and some holidays together.

We still, even now, meet for coffee at least once a week, when conversation naturally turns to our son: How’s he doing at school? How do we get him off the Xbox? Did I tell you the hilarious thing he said the other day…. Our friendship means we’re able to share all this, and yet still have our own lives. 

When Oscar was four, we moved ‘together/apart’, as we put it, from London to Hertfordshire, as many other conventional families did, for the schools, and now live within 20 minutes walking distance from one another. Oscar spends half the week with me and half with his dad and always has. 

Obviously, there have been times when being a single mum – in the sense that when we’re at mine, it’s just the two of us – has been tough, but it comes with many advantages, which Oscar seems to recognise. We have two sets of house rituals for him to enjoy: Friday night is movie and Chinese night at mine, and it’s always Sunday roast at Dad’s. 

It’s also (relatively) calm, because there’s no ‘point-scoring’ of the kind my married friend describes in her conventional household. “When Ben’s away,” she says, “I actually find it easier, because there’s none of the ‘I’ve bathed them every night this week, so you can darn well cook dinner’ thing. I just get on with doing it all, and I do it all my way.”  

Chris and I have always naturally showed one another affection and friendship in front of Oscar, and he’s never really questioned much – which has surprised none more than me.

We’ve always just told him the truth: that there are different kinds of love, and ours is the friendship type. We’re great mates, love being his parents and always will. Perhaps the best thing that he’s identified? He’ll never have to worry about us getting divorced because we were never a couple in the first place.

Chris and I are aware that if either of us met someone and it got serious, things would probably change. Even though neither of us is with anyone at present, we’ve both had other relationships over the years – and offered each other dating advice in the process.

There was a time when I would have loved to meet someone and have another child, but I realise you can’t prepare for life. I am extremely lucky to have one healthy child who gives me so much pleasure, and a co-parent and friend to share it with.

Our family is not without its challenges, but show me one that is? Sometimes my married friends confess that the ‘we really should have sex’ issue hangs over them and they worry about the physical spark dying out.

For the last 13 years, I feel like Chris and I have had all the benefits of companionship and sharing the joys – as well as the challenges and responsibility – of being Oscar’s parents, without the risk of things turning sour. It may be unconventional, but it feels like a very safe place for all three of us to be. 

Some names have been changed

Little Big Man by Katy Regan is published by Mantle (£14.99). To order your copy for £12.99 plus p&p call 0844 871 1514 or visit books.telegraph.co.uk