Is It Too Late To Date?

I didn’t date when my kids were growing up. Well, I didn’t introduce them to anyone I dated, not for 14 years. Their dad and I divorced when they were little, and not dating where they could see it was a real point of pride for me at a time when I didn’t think I was doing much right. Too broke, too tired, too cranky most days. But at least they got to see me as theirs and theirs alone.

That, it turns out, was also a mistake.

The thing is, when I was growing up, my mom had boyfriends. Not an unusual amount of boyfriends or anything, probably just the regular number that an attractive woman in her 30s might have. Two, maybe three. I hated it. I hated that searching feeling in our house always, like we were never really going to be a capital F family until we found a man to legitimize us. My mom didn’t live in a world that wanted her to ever be without a man. It was widely accepted that she was too pretty, too young, too everything to remain single. And so there was one boyfriend who became a fiance and another one who almost became a fiance and the final one who became her husband.

When I left my husband at 30 with four kids, I knew what was coming. My mom knew it too. She told me, “This is your last kick at the can,” and she didn’t elaborate but we both knew what that meant. My ex-husband might be it for me. My last chance. Because who would want a single mom of four small sons? Nobody, that’s who. Especially not a single mom who was prone to letting herself go. And so I let it go. I stopped shaving my legs, which was not as liberating as I thought, just itchy. And I settled in to be their mom only.

I decided that being on my own with my four boys was enough because it really, really was. We were happy despite all of the reasons we maybe shouldn’t have been — the edge of poverty, the rotten jobs. I told myself we didn’t need anyone else, and I think mostly I was right. When people asked me if I was ever lonely I could have laughed. Who had time to be lonely? I volunteered at their school. I made mom friends and non-mom friends and work friends and book club friends.

And yes, I dated sometimes. Barely. A man who lived two hours away. He worked in politics, we met through a friend of mine, and we saw each other about once a month. It ended one weekend when he called to tell me about a Russian puppet opera he had just seen but I was busy picking nits out of my sons’ hair. All four of them had gotten lice and then given it to me. Our worlds were too different and I couldn’t muster the energy to care.

For 14 years, I dated sporadically. Almost unwillingly. Friends would remind me that my life was passing me by while I was busy living my life, and I would halfheartedly go on a date. The kids never knew. I barely knew.

And then along came the man I now love. A surprise to me and a surprise to him too, I think. A man without children, a divide I never really thought about until I realized I loved him and then, even bigger, I realized I wanted my kids to meet him. They were older, two of my four sons nearly grown. Their eyes weren’t looking to me so much anymore but looking over my shoulder at their own futures.

And so they met. Everyone was polite, glancing at me to make sure I saw how nice they were being. This new man I loved and the four men I’ve always loved. Everyone said nice things afterwards and I was flushed with the possibility that I had pulled off the impossible.

But I was wrong.

My sons had a bunch of reasons why they didn’t like this man. He was too old, too different, not the same as the rest of us. He didn’t have his own kids, he didn’t like movies the way I like movies. He just wasn’t the guy for me, they decided.

But I suspect the problem was simpler: They can’t imagine me with any man. They really don’t have a memory of me being touched by a man. Being hugged. They’ve never had to share me with anyone. I thought it was the right thing to do for them. I thought this would make them feel secure and safe, never worrying about a man coming in to change our family. I painted a picture of myself for them as a kind of bodiless source of comfort for them specifically — a shapeless entity in the kitchen mixing sauces and baking cookies. Turns out it’s really hard to repaint that picture after so many years.

I thought it might change eventually, but it’s been 10 years, and it hasn’t. I’m still with this man and we’re happy when we’re together. I’m still my kids’ mom and we’re happy when we’re together. But we haven’t melded into a totally new family, all together. My boys and I have been a unit for so long that I didn’t have it in me to change that — even for him.

Jen McGuire is a contributing writer for Romper and Scary Mommy. She lives in Canada with four boys and teaches life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When she is not traveling as often as possible she’s trying to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with her neighbors. She will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once but she’s open to requests.

This article was originally published on scarymommy.com.