Living apart together... Living together apart.... There are all kinds of ways to make relationships work, whether they're relationships that involve love and affection or relationships built to sustain two people at lower costs than separate houses.

Here's a popular strategy that some couples use in Quebec: The kids get the house. The parents move out.

Of course, not at the same time, because that would leave small Wilbur and precious Joanie to tear up the family home in no time flat.

But what some couples who separate try in order to achieve the least amount of emotional trauma for children is a shared custody arrangement in which the parents are the ones to shift between houses, not the kids.

Here's how it works:

The parents shop for an apartment or second home that they feel they can afford. It has to be a location that both like and feel comfortable living in. They furnish the place and make it viable to live in. Each choose a room to be theirs and set up their personal effects.

Then, one week of two, one of the parents moves out of the main family home into this secondary location. The other parent stays in the family home with the kids. When the week is up, the parent that had moved out moves back into the family home, and the other parent gets a week-long break in the secondary home.

The exchange of household only requires that the parents pack a small bag of personal items. They already have a room set up in either home with clothes in both locations.

The benefits? The kids never have to leave the home they grew to love. They get to stay in one place without suffering an upheaval or leaving behind a house they feel good living in. The kids stay in one familiar location. There's no fear of the unknown, no leaving behind anything and no worries about the future.

No, next week was not better. Next week was far too long for a little girl missing her daddy. I pointed that out. 

"Aw, don't make me feel guilty. I really don't want to feel guilty about this. I need time to do my own things and..." 

When you separate and you have children, be prepared. Be prepared to be the one who has to explain, gently, why we can't go see Daddy. Or why Daddy doesn't come have supper more often. Or why daddy has to leave to go home. 

Despite being used to this, despite knowing all the right words and the proper how-tos, I still feel the pain of having to disappoint a child when Dad just doesn't want to be a dad. 

Does it make me mad? Sure. Sure it does. Fathers should be there for their kids — all the time. 

What makes this such a hot issue when a couple splits up, though? I know married couples that live together and the father works 70 hours a week. He barely sees his kids. I know mothers too wrapped up in their own lives to care for their kids. 

When a couple splits up, why do people suddenly get all upset if dad doesn't want the kids for a day or a week? What changed beyond the situation before? 

I don't begrudge my ex his need for time on his own. No one should have to have their weeks full of work and responsibilities with no spare time left to relax and do what they want.

There's compromise, too. My girl wants to see her dad. Dad wants to be alone for a while. "How about if we come at 3 and just stay for a few hours? You have time to do your stuff and she'll be happy to see you."

"Rake over there!" My ex pointed to a patch about 100 feet from where I'd decided to amuse myself with old leaves. I bristled almost immediately.

"I'll rake where I please," I answered, lifting my chin a little.

It's a backlash effect, a reaction to the way things used to be. There was no reason for me to be upset. My daughter and I had come to the country to have a nice day in the sun with Dad, and we were all in a good mood. My ex hadn't meant for it to sound like an order; he was just telling me which area needed raking the most.

But I can't stand being told what to do. The last eight years of our relationship were full of control and possession, and I'm afraid I wasn't the one running the show.

My ex was extremely controlling. He told me who I could see and when. He would time my outings down to the last minute and explode if I was home late — even when it was just a grocery run or I'd been held up by a slow tractor on the road.

I don't blame him. He operated out of fear of losing control. He knew things were rocky. He loved me, I loved him, but we were so mentally separated from each other that he felt he had no other way to hang onto me.

So he'd rule with an iron fist (thank god not literally) and I would comply to his every wish in the hopes of accomplishing peace and affection. I dropped all my friends. I did what he wanted. I went where he told me. After a while, it became too much trouble to even go out.

For a long time, I lived in fear. He scared me. I felt worn down and beaten. I was tired. I was afraid to leave and needed to leave like the desert needs rain. I thought if I told him I wanted out that he would hurt me.

But I did it and he didn't do it.

Now, we live apart and love together. We're a couple under two roofs. We have our bad times still, but we have good times more often — enough to make it worth it.

Finally. After years of prevention and being careful, after all this time managing to squeak through unscathed, it's happened: lice.

My toddler's daycare reported an outbreak and sure enough, the little buggers were taking up residence in my little girl's beautiful halo of curly hair. They also chose to camp out in my teen's crowning glory as well — the whole two-foot length of reddish curls.

I spent that first day giving chemical treatments that choked my lungs while consoling my shame-ridden teen and rolling my eyes at my toddler. She bounced around the house announcing, "I have BUGS in my HAIR. Do YOU?"

No, thank god.

The beds have been stripped and sheets were washed in near-boiling water. The house is vacuumed daily. All plushy toys were either disinfected or sent into quarantine. Heads were picked through multiple times. We've done all we can. The electricity bill will be sky high this month and I'm exhausted, but that's alright. Bugs, be gone.

But forgive me. I couldn't suppress the dirty look I gave my teen's father when he sauntered in for a visit the other day and chuckled when he heard the news. I couldn't help the smart remark that escaped me when my toddler's father said, "The house looks like a wreck."

Yes. Yes it does. Singlehandedly and with no prize from anyone, I've managed to pull myself together to play Supermom for a week. I've put aside all my other obligations and responsibilities, I've forgotten my worries and concerns, and I've focused 100% on my kids.

Alone. With no help. One would think that being a father meant that you pitched in to help your kids when they needed it, but it seems not. Whoever holds the custody is the one to drop it all and come to the rescue, come hell or high water.

"I never wanted you to leave," one of my exes said thoughtfully. "You wanted this. Now deal."

This is the question I face. My second ex, the one I'm trying to continue to have a relationship with despite not living in the same household, announced bad news recently. His doctor told him that he's teetering on the brink of cirrhosis of the liver. It's almost shot, just hanging on by a thread.

It wasn't really surprising news for either of us. My ex has struggled with alcohol for many years. His whole family has. Out of 13 children, only two aren't heavy drinkers.

He's one of those functional alcoholics. Admittedly caught in the cycle of needing drink and hating it, he manages to hold down a good job, bring in a steady income, and be relatively normal most of the time.

Sometimes he binges. Mostly he just tries to keep his drinking to something passably acceptable — and doesn't seem to quite make it.

If he keeps it up, he'll die.

I couldn't help but think to myself how stupid we all can be, fighting over petty things that don't matter and battering each other emotionally because of unfulfilled needs and misunderstandings. Personalities clash, arguments happen, and they're punctuated with the poignant irony of two people who still love each other.

We just can't get along. How silly is that?

I want to say that some big miracle happened, that my ex foreswore all alcohol and turned a new leaf so we could focus on what truly matters, but things like that only happen in the movies. There was no huge revelation or monumental change.

So I find myself wondering, what now? I guess everything stays the same and we all try to continue living with the monkeys on our back, each in our own way.

One of the biggest myths of all is that divorcees and single mothers are seen as heroes. They've survived trials and tribulations, they took a stand, and they're making it on their own.

Heroes? In my book, yes. In the public eye? Oh, no, not at all, I'm afraid.

Divorcees are quickly perceived as women on the prowl. They're cougars. They're predators. They have no man, therefore, they must be on the hunt for one. And if they're not? Then they must be depressed, suicidal wash-ups barely hanging on.

Single mothers? Valiant crusaders raising children? I'm afraid not. Single mothers are usually pinned as bad mothers, because who in their right mind would rip children away from their fathers and feed kids Kraft Dinner when child support payments weren't forthcoming?

Well, I'll tell you who's in their right mind. Divorcees and single mothers, that's who.

These women have gone through life experiences that are challenges to their very self-worth and integrity. These women fight hard and fight back, sometimes even against themselves as they try to figure it all out.

These women are survivors and forward thinkers, not women who lie in complacency or settle for less. These women refuse to sit back and take a beating for years. They get up, they get out, and they get on with it.

Do they do it on a whim? Not likely. Women take a long time before making up their minds, and that goes double (and sometimes triple) for women in relationships that aren't working.

There's nothing impulsive about leaving your partner. There's nothing quick or fast about it. It's a big decision that demands a lot of thought and careful planning. It can take a decade or more before that step out the door occurs.

My toddler and I met an acquaintance not long ago, and conversation included the separation from my ex. "Oh... That must be so hard for the kids," she shared quietly, looking sympathetic.

I have to take issues with the preconceived notion that because a family doesn't live together, someone suffers. This is untrue. Divorce does not wreck the lives of children and scar them for life.

Adults do.

The behavior of adults going through a relationship breakup or a divorce is one of the most influential aspects of a child's feelings. If the breakup is rocky and teary, then the child gets upset. If the move to a new home is carried out sadly, then the child will miss what used to be.

There is no damned good reason for children to be scarred and traumatized because of divorce. Why do people not understand that? If two people behave well, politely, and with a positive attitude, children suffer very little.

Sure, they have feelings and concerns. It's a time of change and they don't know what's coming. That doesn't mean the time has to be full of fear or full of tears.

If people believe that children are automatically damaged because their family breaks up, what drove home that belief? I'll tell you what: Bad behavior. Acting out. Uncontrolled emotion. Angry shouting.

So why don't we all understand, once and for all, that the end of a relationship is just the beginning of a new phase? Why don't we look forward to the future instead of hanging onto the past? Why don't we smile when we tell our children something better is coming?

"I miss my dad," my toddler told me one morning when she woke up.

"Okay," I answered. "Let's go give him a call and see what he's up to. Sound good?" She called, they talked for five minutes and that was it.

All right, I admit it. I'd like to be a drunk. 

I don't honestly mean that, of course, because when you're a lush, you don't have any life at all. You're bankrupt, you're boozing, and you're probably in bad need of a shower.

But boy, I would so like to ditch the responsibilities right now and just feel sorry for myself.

My neighbor called me not long ago. "I think you're having a depression," she ventured carefully. Actually, scratch that. She wasn't careful about it at all.

But no. No depression for me. I wish. I've had six of those depressions and I know exactly what it feels like when they start to creep into your life. It's like you're in a shoebox and the lid is closing slowly down on you.

No, what I'm feeling these days is just rat-tired and sorry for myself. I'm tired of my ex who breezes in once a week to provide daycare to his daughter. I'm tired of my other ex who just breezes in whenever he wants. I'm tired of my kids.

It's been three years and five months since my last (very last) daughter was born. I spent a year and a half nurturing her while clinically depressed and I spent two years getting my feet back under me after leaving my husband.

Now I want to have "me" time. And by this point, I don't think a day will be enough. I want a week. Three weeks. A month.

I just want to ditch all consequences for a while, so I can appreciate what I have in my life once I'm ready to be a single parent again.

Whining? Oh yeah. I'm whining. I'm a woman. Aren't I allowed?

I admit it. Some days, my life is a complete mess — and I mean literally.

My house is littered with toys. My home-cooked meals are usually warmed-up leftovers. My laundry baskets overflow. The cats are shedding like mad, and the floors need vacuuming. I'd mention the windows, but they're more like sun filters right now, what with all the residue the outside elements have left on them.

I need a babysitter, a break, and a drink.

Needs aside, my biggest priority has been keeping up appearances that I'm a Good Mother. I've had a few comments from people lately, jokes about how it's hard to walk across the floor or comments about it being 8 pm and how could I possibly just be sitting down to supper?

For all you people that believe single moms have to be Superwoman, read this: I don't care what you think any more.

Here I am, working like a devil to make ends meet so I can pay the bills and have some leftover. I'm coping with dealing with a teen and a toddler at the same time. I'm desperately trying to hang onto a relationship I actually left, and I'm working very hard not to regret having done so.

Regrets? Oh sure, I have them. I have them when I could use that extra support or someone to say, "Hey, I'll take over." I have regrets when I look at my microwave meals and think about how I used to make such beautiful suppers when we were a family. I have regrets that we used to be a double-income household, not a struggling single one.

Relationships shouldn't be about sharing the workload. They should be about sharing affection and time together.

But boy oh boy, I sure wish I had a man around the house some days.

Ex Number Two had been causing me some definite grief. But like the sun rises in the east, he makes a sudden mental shift and it's all coming up roses again.

I knew it would; he cycles through his pattern faster than my washing machine cycles through a heavy load.

His lows remind me every time why I left him. I feel nothing. The abusive behavior comes back, the mind f**k returns and I feel like I've been tossed five years back into a quagmire of mental hell - and I don't even live with him.

But when that cycle spins around, ooooh...

I had been having a bad time during the March break. Both kids had been at home for the week. The teen slept until 2 p.m. every day and didn't want to participate in activities. The toddler screamed and bounced off walls begging for an energy release.

I watched my workload pile up with no chance to dig in and earn some money. Fine, I thought. This is my chance for some forced vacation. We'll go to a museum. In the city. Two hours away. In winter.

The drive took nearly three hours, my teen moped through the halls and my toddler didn't care for any exhibit that didn't ring, pop, snap, or buzz. The dinosaurs turned her on, and we spent a lot of time patting monster replicas.

I got a parking ticket I couldn't afford, we'd forgotten to eat supper and everyone was hungry and there was black ice on the roads. Let's just say I should've stayed home.

The next day was a snowstorm and we were back to bouncing-off-the-walls-chaos. My teen begged to go snow tubing. My toddler wanted to watch cartoons all day long. I wanted to cry.

The day after, I woke up determined to have a Good Time. Snow tubing it would be! The sun shone brightly, it wasn't cold, and I was ready.