You know what I hate most about dating?
I hate that, as a woman, I have to pretend I don’t see the cute kids running around the restaurant as we sit and have coffee. I hate that I can’t comment on how mini that little munchkin-baby is as we pass a pram on the promenade. I hate that my wandering eyes may drift over to a little person and give me away as a woman simply dying to have your babies. I hate that in amongst talking about dreams and hopes for my future, I can’t talk about my hope to someday become a mum because HEAVEN FORBID I freak you out.
But understand this:
My maternal instinct has nothing to do with you. It started long before you; it’ll continue long after you. It is not a weakness and it is not certainly something I am ashamed of. I did not come faulty (at least in this regard).
I love people of all ages. I love oldies and I freaking adore littlies. I don’t have to shy away from exhibiting my wonder for older people so why has society told me to shy away my maternal side?
I am utterly fascinated by kids, partly because they’re people, their processes of learning are almost visible to the adult eye, they’re cute and they’re interesting. They are really cool, as a concept and in reality.
Somewhat naturally, I hope (and expect?) to be an excellent Mum one day.
And do you know what that means?
That I will absolutely not be thinking of having your babies.
What woman who wants to be an excellent mother, considers having a child with a man who can’t even acknowledge them? Not this one. Because if I ever have the incredible privilege of having my own child/ren, they will be some of the most wanted people brought into this world by both parents and by both families. If I have children, you can safely conclude that he was dying for me to have his babies – thank you very much.
They say guys grow up about those sorts of things later than girls do. Fair enough. But remember, daring to THINK my maternal side has anything to do with you is as outrageous, as outlandish as my thinking your interest in cars or sports has anything to do with me.
Grow a beard. Have a beer. And tousle a child’s hair. You’ll survive, I promise. And I’ll acknowledge that the colour of that car is pretty if it’s relevant.