I’ve spent the last week trying to wrap my head around the idea of my kids as “baggage”.  Robey says that my kids are definitely designer bags - which is good, because no one likes an ugly suitcase.  Still, it’s been difficult making the words I heard mesh with the image I had in my head of this person.  Someone else’s baggage - a constant reminder that I have a history with another man - all up in his face.  Impossible to work beyond that, I get it.  I really do. 

But I think less of him for it.

My dad was able to “deal” with my mother’s baggage.  Perhaps it was because he allowed himself to get to know her before making a sweeping (and frankly, dumbass) decision about what he could or couldn’t handle.  (baggage handler - heh.  now i know the real meaning)

My brother “handled” baggage as well.  Turns out he actually LOVES his wife’s baggage.  He may not have had his own kids, but he loves them like they are.  He’s shared in the ups, downs, good, terribly bad, and mediocre that parenting brings.  It didn’t happen overnight.  But if someone like my brother (who was completely not kid-friendly or child-safe) can do it, well, there’s hope for mankind. 

All around me are split families who have expanded to include other people who love their children.  As my sister says, divorce opens the door for more people to love your kids.  It also opens the door - if you allow it - for people to tell you that you are not worth the sacrifice your kids demand.

I’ve heard: 

“Good thing you know now - better to know now than later.”

and:

“Anyone who feels that way about your kids is just a loser.”

These statements come from people who knows me, so of course they want to protect me knowing I’ve been hurt.  Secondly, anyone who knows my kids thinks they are the bomb (or at least they aren’t stupid enough to tell me otherwise) and can’t imagine that someone else doesn’t feel that way about them.  I understand that being my friend or a surrogate aunt or gay uncle isn’t the same as being a full-time step-parent.  I also understand how intensely tiring and buzz-killing children can be - especialy when they aren’t bound to you by biology, blood, DNA or family. 

The entire experience has made me gun shy about everyone.  I’ve had two people entirely misrepresent themselves to me. Whether the mispresentation was purposeful or not is truly not my problem.  If they can sleep well at night, more power to them.  The fact of the matter is, I’m left feeling more than confused, significantly angry, and partially sad. 

Even if I wanted to date right now - as in seriously date - I wouldn’t be able to.  I can go out and be social, but everything internal is locked up and it’s a very good thing.  I don’t feel “nice” about boys right now.  I feel the same about boys that boys probably feel about girls, especially girls in their nearly 40s:  they want something, they want it to be easy, and they don’t want to have to work.  The minute something challenges them, they stamp their feet, whine, or run for the hills.  Good luck finding the easy road. 

I remain confused because I have no desire for another man to take care of my kids. They have a dad.  I haven’t asked any man to take care of me.  I don’t need that.  I stare in the mirror, trying to figure out who I am and what my driving forces are these days.  I’m no longer confused about what I want and I’m crystal clear - sparkling, painfully clear - about what I do not. Is it that difficult to just wait and see?  Must you project an entire future before you have even experience a bout of the stomach flu with me and the kids?  Really, until you are barfed on by someone else’s children, you have no need to fear. 

Writing about dating has been really good for me.  I know I can be funny about it, but not today.  I am reminded of being 15, and knowing that all the guys you secretly crush on will have nothing to do with you (other than MAYBE tutor you in math) and all the guys you just want to tutor in math want to make you their wife.  It’s the beautiful rub of justice/injustice, and fairness/unfairness.  It’s the very rare balance, the one you find when you like someone enough - and they feel the same - but have enough doubts or reservations to pleasantly rub your psyche raw worrying about if you’ll end up together.