Read in a chick magazine or boys online journal once that men with children make good companions. They have more patience and greater ability to sniff out what’s real in relationships, more so than stopping at the polished candy coating. Heard the same about men with dogs versus cats; men with cats can roam and prowl for days, but those with dogs know if they don’t come home, there will be piss on the rug.
I have a girlfriend, a young widower with two kids. When I expressed to her feeling sometimesmaybeperhaps a bit left on the shelf she assured me most assuredly that wasn't case. But when it comes to dating + spawn the kids “win." They have to.
Fair enough. No argument.
The manfriend has a son. One that's seven. Haven’t meet him, haven’t wanted or felt the need to and we’ve had that talk. The moment that gauntlet is thrown the relationship changes. Our time together is spent exploring sushi restaurants and fun menus, having sex and curling up for a movie on the couch previously meant for one comfortably that now holds two. Once the boy comes into the frame it changes, activities and expectations are different. A child’s world is small, especially a young one, and they see what’s in the moment. I become part of the picture, one that’s not fully developed yet. We’re still in the middle of discovery, past the how do you take your coffee, not yet to hopes and dreams and, “Hey wanna live together?”
Once I meet the boy I can’t slip out sideways undetected. Not that I want to, but no one has an infallible crystal or Magic 8 ball.
It’s getting harder dating a man with a kid. Every other weekend is off limits (save Sunday, sometimes late Sunday). After a long work week would love nothing more than the filthy dirties and pizza pan plate of hummus and chewy flatbread at our favorite joint. But he’s got company so I’m cooking dinner and planning a bath. My circle of friends, especially those like me who can come and go and do at will, is small. Microscopic. And I’m not really all that interested in finding trouble - not the kind I used to. My last casual relationship had a girlfriend; the live-in kind he was cheating on, double dipping if you will. With him, I was the baggage, albeit a a piece of carry-on.
And I'm good with time apart, time just for me. Despite my ENFP Meyers Brigg definition, I cherish and recharge in time spent alone, decompressing, regrouping and farting out loud.
But it’s Friday night and I’d rather be anywhere but here. With him. I'm making pork chops for dinner.