2006, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

By Eileen Travers

When my divorce became final last spring, I thrilled at the idea of dating. Dating after divorce is hard enough. It’s even harder to get over that separation of mother-of-two and woman roles, not to mention hitting the dating scene while approaching 40. Sure Doris Lessing outlined the plight of the single mother/lover/writer in The Golden Notebook. Except in this era, there’s a new twist.

When I finally did venture on a blind date, then on another dinner with a secret high school crush, then on another with an old friend with romantic tendencies, the exact same thing happened. Three dates. Three phone numbers I don’t think I’ll ever save on my cell phone. Three cases of Rent-a-Womb.

The scene was the same. I was nervous, feeling like a teenager, well, I guess a teenage mother. I wondered what to wear, how to arrange my hair, what jewelry would go with what dress and shoes.

I showed up a little early, to the café, restaurant, and bar, respectively. The conversation was deliciously awkward. I enjoyed compliments I hadn’t received in a long time and got a kick out of blushing, which I haven’t done in an even longer time.

We talked about our jobs, hobbies, and the usual index card life history synopses first dates unveil. Then talk inevitably slipped toward the old girlfriend and the search for a new one.

And then, It would happen.

The subject of children would come up. I have two daughters, who I love in a great big mamacita-sized way. But to be honest, at that point of the “date” I was beginning to congratulate myself for being womanly instead of motherly. I didn’t want to talk about kids. I wanted to talk about things dating folk talked about.

I would reluctantly chat about one daughter in kindergarten, the other who started riding a bike and reading. Like every parent, don’t get me started. I bragged about this and that. Yes, my parental pride shines, but I didn’t really expect to be swept away by kid-talk on a date. I was paying $10 an hour to a babysitter to escape kid-talk for a few hours. Did they have any idea how much this was costing me?

At this point as they tried to cajole another anecdote out of me, to my amazement, the three dates’ eyes would almost glaze a little, twinkle just so.

“I love children,” they purred.

I took it as a good sign. Great, I thought. But I wasn’t exactly looking for a father for my kids. They have a father who loves them dearly and plays an active and involved role in their lives.

A heartbeat later, the swoon began. Their pupils dilated as they stared at me.

“I want a family,” they murmured, wistful yet wanting. “I would love to meet your kids. They sound great. But I would really, really love a child of my own.”

The extra “really” was theirs, not a stretch of my literary license. And while maintaining eye lock with their swoony fatherly-instinct-laced puppy dog biological clock tick tock gazes, I would feel a lurch in my gut - well, my womb, to be precise.

My mind would instinctively switch on a video camera memory of any one moment of the collective 40 hours of labor it took to thrust forth my daughters into this world. Then I would skip trace through memory nuggets of sleepless nights, countless diaper changes, temper tantrums, and toilet training. I reviewed this flashcard show while staring in speechless disbelief at the three Womb-Seekers in the café, restaurant, and bar, respectively.

They didn’t want a girlfriend. They wanted a womb. My womb.

Being a perennial compromiser, I did some math while sipping my coffee, wine, and mojito, respectively. Mental Olympic-quality gymnastics entertained the thought of procreating for the sake of dating. I calculated that after the “getting to know you” period of at least a year, gestation would take me to within months before my 40th birthday.

Did I really want this? I felt triply suffocated while staring across the café, restaurant, bar table, respectively. Sweating then replaced blushing. I had plans. I wanted to throw a huge party for my 40th. I couldn’t clearly envision stocking up on nursing pads and diapers. I was thinking champagne.

These ticking biological man clocks seemed to want an instant family. They wanted a suburban life and house and biking with the kids and car pooling to school and family dinners. Talk about stretching the notion of instant gratification. It’s called a microwave family in certain circles. In a minute, you’ve got the house, kids, car, and spaghetti night without having to cook it yourself.

These rent-a-wombers were all guys my age, desperately looking for desperate divorced housewives. Their quasi-forlorn deep meaningful stares were creepy. My womb contracted, telling me it was plain wrong.

My older married mother-of-two sister, who set me up with Mr. Womb-Seeker Number One, told me to reconsider my fertility.

Number One was a family man, a nice guy, and a really good person, she said. Well, I thought aloud, so was my ex-husband.

So I considered it. Starting anew. Could I do it?

I told my sister she was still fertile at 46 and that I still have some maternity clothes she could wear. She stopped pursuing the dating matter.

Then Womb-Seekers Number Two and Three briefly entered my life. I was looking for an exit sign before we asked for the check.

I know women who’ve taken the second marriage, new set of kids plunge. They are out there and there are plenty of them.

But it’s not for me.

Besides, I already have a little family. It’s complete. It’s perfect the way it is. I love it. I’m 37. I’ve done the 0 to 2 stage. Twice. Those days are over.

Last summer, I spent two months in New York, visiting my kids’ father.

So then, there’s this guy. A little older, a little shorter, a little interesting. He’s been a friend since his child was born. He never married. He’s a supportive, involved father. Talking about childbirth and books and politics came easy when we went out. Electricity surged.

He never talked about having more kids. Ever.

We started seeing each other once in a while. I started falling for him. This would be amazing, I thought, even after returning to Montreal. This could be great, actually, I still keep thinking, nestling into my high school-like crush.

Now if only he’d call me.

Editor’s Note: We suggested the writer contact the guy in New York. She agreed. Unfortunately, Eileen reports, “He is not into long-distance relationships. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”

Eileen Travers is a writer and reporter in Montreal whose work has appeared in Time Magazine Canada, People Magazine, the National Post, the Montreal Gazette and CanWest News Service. She is also a happily single mother of two who does not plan to procreate again.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, January 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Friday, January 26th, 2007 at 12:01 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.