What It’s Like to Date Fathers When You’re Not a Mother

All the secret thoughts I’m too embarrassed to reveal

My phone vibrates. I glance at it, as I often do when that happens, just in case there’s something that needs my immediate attention. (The bad habit of perpetual distraction born from technology…)

But I’m thrilled for this particular distraction. It’s you. I see your name on the screen and my heart starts beating harder. My whole body feels tingly.

I’m working right now, but I can’t help myself. I stop for a moment, pick up my phone, and text you back. All I want to do is talk to you. I’m so crazy about you.

Oh, I see you’re on a break or distracting yourself during a really long, boring meeting. I feel a little foolish, suddenly. I know you probably would never stop working on an important work project to answer a text from me. You’d wait for a more appropriate time. A moment when you weren’t doing anything important.

I probably shouldn’t be so available.

I text you back, some part of me trying to nudge our conversation to a close out of this vague sense of shame I feel. I’m like a teenager, always waiting by her phone to hear from her crush.

I think about your ex-girlfriend while I watch the little dots on our text thread as you type back to me. She had her own business, too. She probably never, ever stopped working to text you back immediately.

And more importantly…she, like you, has kids. I’m sure that made her far less available than I have been.

Truthfully, I think of that a lot: the fact that she had kids. And a business. Which means there is no way she was so easily available to you.

Do you ever compare us? Do I seem less worthy of your attention because I’m always here, always available to you? Do you wonder why I answer so quickly? If I have anything important to do with my life?

Or do you imagine me just sitting here by the phone, waiting for you?

You ask when we can talk next. Hell, I don’t care, as long as it’s soon. I know you’ll want to talk in the evening, after your work day is over, which is my preference, too. I tend to keep my workday evenings free, so pick whatever day you want — just make it soon.

I like you so much, I just want to spend as much time with you as possible. I’ve never been in a relationship in which I felt truly loved or cared for and if there’s any possibility that it might happen with you — then I’m ready to dive in. I’ve been ready for years.

Sometimes, we have to work around your schedule. You have dinners with friends and calls with your kids and evening meetings every now and then. Whenever you bring this up, I feel that sting of shame again. Should I be more conscientious about filling up my evenings? Maybe I should meet up with friends more often. Maybe I should book more calls in the evenings.

And what do you think of me, being so flexible about our calls? You’ve never dated anyone who didn’t have lunches to pack, homework to check, and bedtime stories to read in the evenings. You’ve never been with anyone who didn’t have work or family obligations all day and all night long. You’ve never had any woman be so…there.

I want to think that you find this a happy novelty. Something you find particularly attractive in me.

But I can’t shake this feeling that it doesn’t sit well with you. That maybe you think my life is a little bit frivolous. That I’m not mature or serious enough because I never had children.

Sometimes, I’m afraid that you’ll never respect me as much as you respect your ex-girlfriends and your ex-wife because I didn’t hit the markers of “successful adulthood” that this culture says I should have hit by now.

You reminded me again that you aren’t interested in marriage or having more kids. Yes. I heard you the first four times you said that. And the six times you mentioned it after that.

I know you probably think that just because I’ve never been married or had children, that even though I say I’m okay not going down that road — that I’m not sure I want to, anymore — I’m going to change my mind after you fall in love with me and then demand a ring and a baby.

I won’t mention to you the subtle misogyny in that kind of thinking. The whole “women as deceptive succubi” story.

And if this has actually happened to you, I’m sorry. But also, it’s really not as nefarious as you’re making it out to be (again — subtly misogyny there). It’s not actually so horrible that a woman might fall in love with you so deeply that she wants to take those journeys with you. Worse things have happened than someone loving you that much.

If you don’t want it, you can just call it a non-match and walk away. And if you really feel that she is more interested in her own fulfillment than in yours, again: worse things have happened. You can still walk away. She doesn’t have the power to steal your name, your time, your money, or your semen.

So can we just dispense with this storyline? Can you please stop positioning me as your worst fear?

Yes, I always wanted to know what it would be like to have a man want me so much that he would propose marriage. Yes, I always wanted to become a mother.

But I’ve already decided — before I even met you — that I’m not sure I need to travel down those paths anymore. I’m at a very different place in my life. I don’t need you to assert your boundaries about this again and again and again. I never expected you wanted marriage or more kids. I came into this not needing either.

I am still grieving over the things that never happened in my life. I am learning to put that chapter behind me. You don’t need to remind me of that pain over and over. I heard you the first time.

Since we’re on this subject, I might as well share something else. You already think I’m lying about not needing to get married and being willing to accept that I will not become a mother. So why not share some of my more unattractive feelings about this issue that will likely (though falsely) confirm your worst fears?

I’m jealous of your ex-wife. Yes, I know, you probably think that’s crazy since you don’t seem to like her very much anymore.

But I am crazy jealous of her. You were “all in” that relationship. You gave it your everything. You threw yourself wholeheartedly into that commitment. You invested in her to the point of buying a house together, getting married, having kids. You loved her that much.

I know you will never love me that much. I know you will never want me that much. You saw a worthiness in her that you will never see in me. I feel that every time you remind me you don’t want to have more kids and you don’t want to get married.

I don’t need to be someone’s wife or the mother of someone’s children to feel like a valuable member of a relationship. But sometimes, it feels like that’s the only way you can attach value to a female partner. If I’m not your wife or the mother to your children, who am I to you? What do I matter to you? Am I just a fling? A fun distraction from a life that’s getting a little too rote? (Oh god, now I feel even worse about being so available to you…)

What do you even want from me? We’re not even an official couple yet. How did you already determine that I’m not as worthy an investment of your time, love, and commitment as your ex-wife was? Did you give this same boundary to your last girlfriend? Or did you find her more worthy than you find me because someone had once chosen her? Someone once thought she was valuable enough to marry, to raise kids with?

Do you see me as unworthy because no one chose me? No one ever wanted to marry me? No one wanted to raise a child with me? Do you think poorly of me because of that?

The truth is, I’m jealous of you, too. You got to have kids. You got to know what it was like to be married. You got to experience the whole shebang.

Someone loved you that much. I don’t care if it ended badly. I don’t care if you hate her now.

Imagine if no one had offered. If the one person you wanted to marry fell on the floor and hyperventilated when you mentioned the “m word.” If you had always wanted to experience parenthood but every partner you met gave you a firm, “No.”

I worry that you think you’re better than I am because of what you’ve experienced. Because someone chose you. Because you were married and you are a parent.

Hell, I sometimes think you’re better than I am. That’s the cultural narrative: there’s no more important accomplishment in the entire world than being a parent.

I guess I fell short on that one.

Do you think I’m a failure? Can you tell that I worry that I’m a failure?

My phone goes off again. It’s you. My whole body responds, as if you’ve actually walked into the room.

I pick it up. I start to text back.

Then I stop. I probably shouldn’t be so available.

But, no. This is the life I have. This is who I am. I think the worst thing I can do now is start asking myself, “What would a woman who is a mother do in this situation?” before every decision I make.

I’m not a mother. And that’s okay. I don’t have to be one. I don’t have to live my life like one.

I’m available. And I want to be. I want to fall in love. I want to be with someone deeply.

Maybe you don’t. Maybe you think I’m not good enough because I don’t have kids. Maybe I’ll never measure up to your ex-wife and your ex-girlfriends, all of whom were mothers.

But I’m going to toss myself headfirst into this rabbit hole, anyways. Because that’s who I am and how I live my life. And I’m not going to be ashamed about that. (Well, maybe just a little…)

© Yael Wolfe 2021

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