Four years ago, scarred by the pandemic experience of trying to care for two toddlers in isolation, my husband and I decided we wanted a built-in community. We were tired of being the ones solely in charge of organizing, feeding, disciplining and playing with our kids.
On a whim, we moved halfway across the world to Singapore to live next door to our best friends, Jeremy and Melissa. We aren’t polyamorous, hippies or reckless. Just another set of tired parents, exhausted by trying to do it all with little support.
We rented an apartment across the street and began sharing meals, childcare and playdates – and yes, we even let my friends yell at our kids. I quickly realized that communal parenting isn’t radical; it’s practical.
I could feel the weight lift as I unlocked the door to their apartment after a long day of work each evening. Jeremy would be in the kitchen cooking something delicious, while Melissa poured me a glass of wine and the kids played in the room next door. Within weeks, I was happier, less stressed, and a better mom than I had ever been before. My kids couldn’t believe their luck. They hadn’t just gained a sibling – but a whole new set of grown-ups who loved them and had their backs.
The experience had me questioning the norms I grew up w...
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