
A family photo of Markus Harwood-Jones, his husband, Andrew, and their co-parent, Hannah. (Photo: Katia Taylor Photography)
My husband, Andrew, and I met in 2012, when we were both university students in Toronto. Though I’d always dreamt of having kids when I was younger, the idea of family-building wasn’t really on our radar as 20-somethings having fun. As a queer couple, we weren’t sure what that might look like for us, either.
But in 2015, the idea of becoming parents came up more seriously—thanks to a third party. My friend Hannah had moved in with Andrew when he needed a roommate. One day, after years of living together, Hannah approached Andrew with a proposal: She wanted to eventually become a solo parent, and she wanted him to be her donor. Would he be interested?
Andrew was more than interested. In fact, he didn’t want to be just a donor, but an active parent, too. They looped me into the conversation, and it seemed like the perfect arrangement for me to reach the dream of parenthood I had when I was younger. We made a pact: We could all be parents together—with Andrew and I as a romantic pair, and Hannah as our platonic co-parent—raising a child in a three-parent household.
In Ontario, where we live, up to four parents can be listed on a child’s birth certificate regardless of how the child is conceived. That meant that I, as a non-genetic parent, would still have parental rights when it came to our child. Five other provinces and territories allow for more than two parents on a birth certificate, though in some places, like B.C., only children conceived through assisted reproduction qualify.
We decided the first step to parenthood was living together as a family unit and seeing how we handled things like the division of chores and conflict. In 2018, I moved in with Andrew, Hannah and her dog, Dunkin, in Toronto, and we fell into the rhythms of everyday life. We all had experience with queer collective housing—living arrangements that take into great consideration the needs of not just housemates but the larger community, too. We used that approach in our own home, ensuring that we built not just a family but an intentional community together. We’d create grocery budgets for collective meals or plan house events where everyone chipped in—all great testing grounds for how we’d handle the massive responsibility of raising a child.
We also had lots of conversations about childrearing and the kinds of parents we wanted to be. We used both the guidelines for separating parents in Ontario and guidelines for queer parenting from a workshop we participated in as starting points. We covered as many possible topics as we could: How did we want to discipline our children? How would we resolve conflict when two parents were in agreement but the other wasn’t? How often would we travel to see extended family? How many children would we even want to have? We spent many hours ensuring that we were all on the same page, and that we would all respect one another’s opinions, and together we built a parenting agreement that guides our decision-making when it comes to our children.
When the pandemic hit in 2020, we figured it was as good a time as any to start trying to conceive. It took more than a year of IVF cycles, but Hannah got pregnant and gave birth to our first child in 2022. At the time, I had received a grant for my PhD program that allowed me to take a one-year paid parental leave, which meant Hannah and I could stay home full-time for the first 12 months of our child’s life. As opposed to many traditional families, this gave Andrew, Hannah and I all a chance to contribute financially and domestically for our family. Being able to dip our toes in different spheres to provide for our child was incredibly fulfilling.
Having three parents involved in raising a child means there’s always an extra set of hands to help. When one parent needs to catch up on sleep, for instance, there are always two others ready to step in, which is especially great during the newborn phase. But that doesn’t mean we don’t experience any challenges. When we find ourselves in conflict, we return back to our queer collective housing roots. We have a standing monthly house meeting where everyone can bring up issues in a safe, intentional space, and we mediate until we’ve found a solution. We aren’t settled until every parent can agree on a compromise that feels good.
This past year, the three of us bought a home in Kitchener, Ont. We also decided to expand our family again. This time, however, we decided to use my eggs to create the embryo. (As a trans man, I was able to undergo an egg retrieval process, while Hannah carried the baby.) Our second child was born this summer. Both of our children will know about their genetic ancestry and that regardless of biological connection, we are all their parents.
To me, family is an intentional choice. It’s a relationship that we choose to have with each other, the same way that one would choose to be in a romantic relationship or in a friendship. Being a family is a decision you make. It’s a responsibility you take on. And every day, I choose this beautiful family I helped make. —As told to Erica Lenti