Non-Breeder: Who's Your Daddy? Not Me.
The hell of dating baby-crazed women.
by Juliana Luecking
June 12, 2008
We met at a party. A few weeks later, we had lunch. A week after that, we saw a movie. A week later, on our third date, Lydia smiled softly and leaned over the cafe table to whisper, "Juliana, have you ever wanted children?"
My internal reaction: Eeeeek! But what I said, fumbling with the menu, was: "I, um, I'd like to be open to, you know, things in life that happen . . . "
The look in her eyes went from sexy to still.
" . . . and, well, if one of my nieces or nephews ever needed a place to stay, you know, they'd be welcome to live at my place."
She looked around the cafe, trying not to hear me, trying to focus on anything but my mess of an answer. A two-year-old giggled nearby as his mother read to him. Lydia gazed at him instead of listening to me.
"Excuse me," I said. My ears started to ring with resentment and embarrassment. I stood up, left a fiver on the table, and scrammed the hell out of there. Stomping down the block to the local lezzie club, I went to find myself a woman who wanted me, not my co-parenting.
Hordes of women in their thirties — yes, hordes — are looking for someone like me to partner with them, not just for love, sex and fun, but to bring a new baby into the world. Many of the women I've dated wanted my help to make a baby happen (and I'm not a fella, so I don't mean that kind of help), and to them I'm just a big disappointment.
The Daddy Hunters only seem to take seriously a relationship that might lead to parenthood.
These women, whom my friends and I call the Daddy Hunters, only seem to take seriously a relationship that might lead to parenthood. And I fail, I fail, I fail. My broken record of faltering responses disappoints them and ensures that our time together, if we can salvage any, will be brief.
You see, even though I'm in my forties, I am not ready, nor will I ever be ready, to be a parent. I want restful nights, quiet weekends, money in my savings account, and a stain-free sofa. I don't want to have a baby. And that's been very hard on my love life.
After Lydia, there was Sophie. We cuddled on her messy bed after a morning of sweaty sex. Her roommate knocked on the door and brought in two big mugs of steaming chai from a pot on the stove.
"This is the kind of Saturday morning I could get used to," I whispered. "Sleeping-in with you is so wonderful." Sophie smiled. I started picturing many mornings together. We could muss about in her bed on one weekend, mine the next. That's the kind of balance I find very important in a relationship: equal responsibility for washing the sheets.
I sipped the tea slowly and admired the shape of Sophie's lips when she blew the steam from her tea. She looked over at me, began to say something, blinked twice, paused. She wanted to say something, I knew, and I caught myself wondering: was she going to say she loved me? We hadn't known each other long, but maybe . . .
"What, Sophie?" I asked her. "What did you want to say?" I leaned over — careful not to spill the chai — and kissed her shoulder. "Hey?"
"Juliana," she said.
"Yeah?" I kept cool, I was Peter Fonda in Easy Rider, coasting the highway of love. An elbow braced on my knee, propped up on pillows, I took a few sips of my tea.
©2008 Juliana Luecking and Babble.com
About the Author
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Juliana Luecking is a writer, videomaker, and freedom of speech activist. She blogs at Moli, YouTube, and Myspace under the moniker QueenJuliana. And you can get her CDs from Kill Rock Stars. |
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