The Dating Dad

Timeline, September 2005

I’m going to be 38 in October. I wouldn’t mind the chance to bring another baby into the world; a sweet little package to cuddle and love, a sib for my dear Simone, another magical entity to add to my weird, wild, blessed life. But I want to have that baby on purpose, and I have the sketchy idea that, if doesn’t happen by the time I’m in my early, very early, 40s, then it’s pretty much too late for me.

Which means the train’s going to leave the station in the near future, and if I don’t stop screwing around, I’m going to miss it.

I’m not sure what that means, exactly, except that I need to get a little more serious, a little more picky, a little more ambitious about the women I date. It means I need to raise the bar higher, take more time in the vetting process, and pay more attention to the red flags.

I think it might mean I need to grow up a bit, too. Introduce the benefit of the doubt into my repertoire, allow feelings to incubate and grow organically, not let the little quirks and foibles bug the crap out of me.

Because, really, it’s about time I let somebody in for real.

And, if the past is any indication, that means I need to stop looking and let providence do its thing. Please excuse my navel-gazing; this could possibly, maybe, perhaps, be an important moment in my new life. This could be the moment where I buck up, become an adult, and open my heart to a real, post-divorce relationship.

Wow. Crap. I don’t know.
Not true. I’m ready to cross paths with my Aphrodite and Athena, my dream girl, my companion. And though I have trouble believing she actually exists, the pragmatic side of me knows she’s out there. We’ll find each other.

Holy shit, I think she’s sitting on the other side of the bar with her two friends.

Lest you think the only reason I want to find my love is so she’ll bear me a sister or brother for Simone, please allow me to clarify. I’m ready for a partner again. The idea of committing energy and attention to one well-matched brilliant beauty has finally found its way into my realm of acceptability. I can envision it without breaking a sweat or getting the shivers. That’s new.

The funny thing is that I’m finally ready, but there’s little chance I’ll find that person in the near future. I’m busy with the new media project; I’ve decided to spend less money on carousing, which means spending more time on the couch with the latest Netflix DVD and a Guinness; and when I’m with Simone, I’m hers alone. The online route hasn’t yielded much in the form of long-term possibility beyond some lasting friendships, so I can’t expect fate to yield more than a tantalizing hint of possibility.

Which means it’s also time to be patient. To wait. To trust.

So I’m going to work my ass off, give Simone every ounce of my attention when we’re together, and enjoy the Deadwood DVDs I keep getting in the mail.

And when the universe is aligned in my favor, I’m going to dive into my next great adventure with a smile on my face.

Hunter, July 2005

It happened so quickly. One moment Simone and I were playing hide-and-seek at the indoor play area in one of Denver’s malls, and the next she and a boy were playing their own game of chase.

It was one of those rare rainy days, and we both needed to be out of the house. Now that it’s on the market, I’ve gotten a little crazy about keeping the place at least reasonably uncluttered, if not exactly clean. If I’m not admonishing Simone to pick up her messes — little explosions of plastic toys or crayons that look like the results of kid-sized cluster bombs — I’m cleaning up behind her, sometimes even while she’s still playing. So getting the hell out of the house appealed to both of us; much better than the constant push and pull of order and chaos.

We’d made the best of the museum of natural history, where Simone had explained to the volunteer docent why stegosauruses sported blood vessels in their back plates, and where we’d purchased some crappy mini dino toys, one of which broke before we even left the parking lot (yes, we went back and exchanged it). But it was just barely lunchtime, and hours and hours before bedtime, so we opted for a foray to the mall.

Simone has always loved playing on the “breakfast.” No matter the time of day, the oversized waffles and sausage links are overrun with sticky children and distracted parents. It’s amazing there aren’t more head-on collisions between hyped-up tykes — bloody noses and bruised chins — but somehow kids manage to narrowly avoid each other, their close calls almost as entertaining to their teenaged babysitters as NASCAR crashes are to their dads.

She and I usually do our own thing, interacting very little with the other kids, until a youngster or two latches on to our game of hide-and-seek and wants to join in on the goofiness. I don’t mind. I love kids. I’d like more if it all works out that way. But, at first, it’s always Simone hiding behind the enormous bowl of shredded wheat, and me ducking under the bacon.

What are your intentions?
So when the towheaded boy came up to me when I’d finished counting and ratted out Simone’s hiding place, I thanked him, and stalled for a few minutes before sneaking up on my girl. Sadly, the boy was already there, and Simone was furious with him for “ruining” the game. I asked him not to tell anymore, and he agreed. Then he told Simone to chase him, and he ran. She went after him.

I wonder if that line would work for me in a bar: “Chase me.”

I watched as the two kids played chase. He’d run, letting Simone catch up to him but not quite get him for a bit, and then she’d grab his shirt, and do a full-body tackle. He’d hit the ground, and she’d climb on top of him. Then they’d get up, and he’d “chase” her, letting her get some distance before grabbing one of her arms and stopping her.

It was nothing. Harmless play. But I felt superfluous, and I knew the little boy was loving the game. Then the mom, or grandmother, or whatever she was, called to him.

She called him Hunter.

Perfect.

I’m not ready for boys to pursue my daughter. She’s five. I should have more time. But I don’t think I do. When she was in preschool, boys’ parents all said how their sons adored her. And, once, she told me how worried she was about going to kindergarten, because she wouldn’t see Mason anymore. “And I’m going to marry Mason,” she told me.

I remember being the boy with the crush. I remember the intoxicating feeling of having a girl chase me, grab me, and let me go. I don’t want Simone to chase boys like me. I don’t want those icky, sweaty youngsters to be smitten with her the way I was with Maurie or Kristin or Lisa. I want them to leave my baby alone. At least for now.

But they won’t. I know that.

Age Gap, June 2005

Holy crap, I think I may have become a cranky old man! This afternoon, I was waiting to hear from a woman with whom I'd had a really good date last week. We talked about possibly getting together this evening, and she said she'd be in touch today. I don't play the whole waiting for the call game very well. If I want to talk to someone, I'll call or send a text message right away. But this was different, because she had homework to finish.

Yeah. She's in college.

In my defense, I didn't know she was so much younger when I asked her out. I didn't find out until we were on our way to dinner.

I think I said something like this: "Okay. So I'm 37, you're 22. I'm Jewish, you're Catholic. Hmmm… there's a lot of potential here." But the date was fun — she's smart and articulate, and really cute. It was the best date in a while.

For some reason, nothing on purpose, I've ended up on dates with much younger women lately. They've all been under 25. I haven't gone out of my way for this to happen, but between the job and my recent choice of drinking venues, it has just kind of happened.

Younger women...
These are all generalizations, of course, but here are the patterns I've noticed. They're spontaneous and don't mind staying out too late on a weeknight. They're receptive to new ideas and ways of thinking. They move through life with a lightness that comes from a relative lack of baggage, debt and a stultifying day job. They laugh easily.

But, so, I was sitting there waiting to hear from her. I finally dropped her a text, because it was 1 pm, and I wanted the freedom to make other plans. Her story was that she was just getting home from the night before. Which meant that she wouldn't be up for a rendezvous this evening, because, like I said, she had homework.

It's not that she was out all night. It's not that she has stuff to do today. It's that she didn't call and let me know. This scenario is not a new one for me, but I've finally recognized the pattern. I've never had a woman over 30 not call when she said she was going to call. And I've never had a woman close to my age disappear for a few days after we'd had an amazing string of dates. But this is common practice for the under-25 crowd. At least for the ones with whom I've come in contact the last couple of months.

Things had been going well with a pretty, together, intelligent 24-year-old. We'd met back in October, but didn't run into each other again until a big party at a club in late January. She remembered me; my full name. Even still had my number in her cell. After that night, we had a promising series of dates, culminating in a silly and romantic Valentine's Day. I didn't honestly believe in long-term potential with her — too many red flags from the outset. But I did crave her company, and we had great chemistry.

And we had momentum, until Feb. 15, when she stopped calling. I wracked my brain, wondering how I'd screwed up. Did I say something that made me seem old? Did I not get her a fancy enough heart-shaped box of chocolate? And in the midst of that stomach-churning self-doubt, I couldn't let myself forget that she was much younger, and probably not right for me anyway.

But that didn’t make it any easier. I'd send the occasional text or try to call, but not too often (didn't want to be creepy), but the responses were terse if they came at all. I'd been blown off, and I felt gut-shot. I deleted her number, chalked it up to stupidity, and tried to let it go. But it hurt.

She did have an explanation, when she finally called me five days later -- something about one of those what-am-I-doing-with-my-life crises, felt bad about not contacting me, had feelings for me that freaked her out, etc. etc. But all it would have taken was a single phone call, early on, saying "I’m going through some stuff. I like you, but I need to sort things out. I'll be in touch." Sure, I would have been disappointed, but it would have been exponentially better than the stomachaches I lived with, wondering what had happened.

We still see each other, but I've set lower expectations around when and how I'll hear from her. That helped the night we were supposed to meet up after separate parties, because she'd dropped her phone in the toilet (yeah, I know) and she didn't call for 24 hours. I was frustrated, but not surprised, and had an easier time letting it go.

I want to think that age is irrelevant, that the distinction is purely cosmetic. I'm not one of those guys hunting for a hot youngster because she looks good on my arm. I don't have time for dates with women who don't capture my imagination, who can't carry on an interesting conversation. Just beautiful doesn't cut it anymore.

I'm seriously considering putting a personal ban on dating women more than 10 years younger than I am. I miss the self-possession and perspective about the world older women have — thoughts and ideas about current events and pop culture, questions of philosophy or at least strong opinions about literature.

I mean, I know women in their early 20s who are charming and responsible and demonstrate a worldliness I sometimes have trouble finding in women who have 10 or 15 years on them. But the whole not calling thing bugs the crap out of me.

Epilogue
I'd had a couple of really nice dates with the 22-year-old, and even met her mom, who seemed to like me (which is definitely the kiss of death at that age — if a 30something's parents like me, that's usually not a bad sign). Young miss made it clear that she was dating other guys, and I accepted that.

So it was another Sunday afternoon, and this time she called when she said she would, and told me she could meet me for a drink downtown after a business dinner. She told me she'd call at 8 for a plan. And she did call at 8, while I was on my way downtown, to tell me she hadn't even arrived at the restaurant for dinner yet — that arrangements had changed, and she gave me a half-apology for not calling earlier. I took it in stride, told her to call me when she was done with dinner.

I met my buddy Nate at Red Square, where we knocked back some icy cold blackberry vodka, ogled the bartender, and were joined by Kenny and a 21-year-old troublemaker who'd tagged along with him. The Square was beat, so we moved on to Tryst. At 9, I got the official terse text blow-off from the 22-year-old ("Tonight's not going to work, sorry."), so on the impetus of ire and frustration, I invited two cute 20somethings who'd been smiling at me to join our party. After sitting on the patio in the warm spring air for what seemed like hours, we shuffled to Spill for more drinks.

And it was 2 a.m. and one of the two youngsters had asked for my phone number and given me a kiss. She was holding my hand under the table by the time they kicked us out of the bar.

I held the door for everyone, and exited only to hear Nate say, "Eric, look who's here."

It was my sweet, cute, 22-year-old walking past the bar with some young, skuzzy-looking guy. Nate said later he looked like a glue-sniffer.

Her look of abject embarrassment was priceless. She gave me a hug and started to talk. I couldn't deal, so I held up my hands, said, "Whatever," and walked away. Our friend Maxwell had joined us by that time, and when I started to slow down and turn around, he took my elbow and said, "Just keep walking." She didn't see the other women, which was fine with me. She was caught in her deception, but that was small consolation.

Nate and the two girls eventually caught up to us, and we walked them to their car where, to our surprise, we got warm hugs and long kisses before we helped them with their seatbelts and sent them on their way.

But it didn't do anything for the stomachache I've nursed for the last 24 hours. My mind has written her off. I'm just waiting for my heart to catch up.

What a sucker.

Love Letter, February 2005

At this very moment, I'm alone in one of my favorite bars, knocking back four dollar Ketel, up dirties, writing on the back of an inventory list provided by the bartender who always humors my requests for paper at times like this.

I've been thinking about what's left of "us" lately, because I've been cleaning and organizing. I'm selling the big blue house, so Simone and I can move into something with fewer than five bedrooms; something easier to manage. I've thrown a lot away.

But I've kept stuff, too. I was surprised by my choices, and rueful a trash day too late to recover the card you left for me on our wedding day. I threw that letter away, but kept something you wrote when you were mostly out the door and I was still oblivious. I should probably toss that one, too. "Notes from J— and Eric's Relationship Summit" is what you printed in your neat teacher writing at the top of a classic yellow legal pad. So different from your declarations of unconditional love in that wedding day card, the "summit" notes is a list of negotiations around what days per week I'll do the laundry and what rooms I'll always vacuum. It describes how I'll cede the computer, and who will make dinner from night to night. No mention of displays of affection, no agreements about setting aside time for romantic interludes. It's the business of maintaining a household and raising a child. I should have figured it out at that point, but you told me that day, "I'm not going anywhere," and I believed you.

Irrelevant now.

I never missed you. By the time you moved out, I was more than ready for you to go. While you lived in the house those months at the end, you were so civil, it felt like contempt. It was my own personal purgatory, and there were times I wasn't sure how I'd make it to the other side. But maybe that was your way of helping me toward disengagement. If I let myself believe your behavior was some sort of unselfish and wise attempt to make the transition better for me, then I should be grateful. I never pined for you.

Never. Not for a second.

But damn, I wish I could trust you again. My life has gone back into flux, and I wish I had the benefit of your insight. Wouldn't it be amazing to be best friends again? To speak freely about relationship stress, to laugh about coworker exploits, and trade takes on the latest sci-fi flicks?

There was a time in my life when I didn't want to make a decision without vetting it through you first. You were my best friend and my most trusted sage. Sure, being forced to make choices without your help has been a healthy side effect of your departure. But I trusted your wisdom, and sometimes I wish I could still process some of my big decisions with your assistance.

You could say she's not right for me, and that I should let her go. Or that I'd be an idiot if I didn't fight for her heart.

But these days our conversations are limited to pickups and drop-offs, child-rearing standards, childcare expenses and clothing transfers. The interludes of true communication are bits of clarity in a sea of logistical white noise. And that's okay, because we don't really like each other anymore, and find ourselves surprised when we have conversations that… just… stretch beyond the one little human being we have left in common.

Not much of a love note, huh? Let me try again.

J,

Thank you for almost nine years of big laughs, intellectual challenges, epic journeys, shared heartache, joy, tears, awe, travail. Thanks for caring about my health, and thanks for helping me through agonizing work situations.

If you hadn't come into my life, I may not have:

• Published my first book
• Gone to New Zealand, Morocco, South Africa and a plenitude of destinations both concrete and ephemeral
• Discovered the sublime joy of a Nebraska porterhouse, served with iceberg salad and a plate of crispy hash browns
• Reaped the rewards, even for a limited time, of being in the presence of your family
• Learned that the difference between one and two packets of mild Taco Bell sauce on a bean burrito elevates the joy of consumption exponentially
• Been inculcated into the essentials of moisturizer

To put the joy of our lives, our precocious offspring, into this list seems reductive. She is a dream, and I could never, ever, thank you enough for your part in bringing her to the world. J, whatever happens between us in the years to come, and despite the anger and hurt and sense of betrayal I've felt in the past, and could conceivably feel again from time to time, I will always love you for the gift of our Simone.

It's not the love we shared (or I think we shared… we did, right? That's what all of those notes are about that I came across in my cleaning efforts, right?), and it will never again be a full-fledged, heart-filling tidal wave of admiration and delight. In fact, it's barely there most of the time. It's deep, deep down, outside the range of my daily experience. And it's not about who you were or who you are.

It's a tiny spark of gratitude, of wonder, of humility. But it's there, and it always will be.

So there you go. Here's something I never thought I'd express to you again:

I love you.

Passion, December 2004

My two great passions are mutually exclusive. In fact, enjoyment of one precludes experience of the other. It took me nearly two years as a single dad to find pleasure in this bifurcation of character, though I'm still working on the guilt.

See, I'm passionate about the time I spend with my precocious daughter, and I absolutely love Ketel 1 martinis, up, dirty and the havoc a couple (or more) of them can wreak upon my life.

The compressed conflict comes from the fact that, while I'm drinking a salty vodka beverage, I only enjoy it 100 percent if I can avoid thinking about, and missing, my girl too much. And even during some of our greatest father-daughter moments together, the martini calls me, offering an escape from negotiations about bedtime and evenings spent in the suburbs, surfing the offal of Saturday night satellite.

On the other hand
Yet, the pleasures a Ketel, dirty, provide are due, in part, to the recognition that I'm single and off-duty, and the night holds endless promise.

It's been another one of those days — Simone was anything but pliant in getting ready for preschool, which made me late to work, then I spent several hours fighting with my computer, answered four snotty emails, almost missed deadline, and ate a crappy lunch at my desk. By the time 5:30 rolls around, all I can think about is that first drink. Unconsciously, I wipe at my mouth as I log out of Outlook. Then I'm sitting at the bar, and my drink looks like a freaking fishbowl. The light refracting through the vodka makes it impossible to tell if the cute bartender slipped two or three olives onto the little plastic sword.

And I face the first of many choices — choices I didn't have the night before, when coaxing my daughter out of the bathtub and into her pajamas: Do I slide the overfull glass across the bar, sloshing droplets of icy clear alcohol over the rim as I take my first sip, or brace myself on the barstool, lean way over, and slurp the nectar? I opt for the second, and my buddy shakes his head at me in mild censure.

"Herbert."

The bar starts to hum with conversation, and I don't have to be anywhere. And, sweet! A really pretty professional type just let me buy her a drink. As long as I enjoy my freedom, and don't dwell much on the fact that I'm not with my daughter, the next few hours are rife with possibility.

But for every liquor-soaked evening that has devolved into a bacchanal of spilled drinks and stolen kisses, there are at least five that have me driving home at two in the morning, mostly sober and very tired, regretting another stupid night.

Take-home message
And that's what I tend to remember when it's Friday, and Simone and I are making dinner together. The time spent with her is sweeter, because I'm not out feeling grimy from smoke, drinking too much and spending obscene amounts of money. We're in the kitchen, and she's standing on a stepstool at the sink, washing asparagus (and the counter, and herself, and me) with the sprayer, while I finish up the rest of dinner. Then she'll help me set the table, we'll eat and laugh and talk about our day, and we'll play horsey or hide and seek until bath time. And once she's shiny and sparkling and in her pjs, I'll lay next to her, and read her "just one more chapter" until I can barely keep my eyes open. Then I'll turn off the light, and doze there for a few minutes, sniff her cheek, and sneak out the door.

The dirty kitchen will beckon, the freelance assignments will call. But I'll dig out a DVD I haven't had time to watch, and feel thankful that I don't have to find a way to get my drunk ass home tonight. I'll be sleeping alone while my friends are out whooping it up, but over dinner, my daughter told me, "Winter is approaching like a fox… it’s sneaking up on the warm weather." And then she made a joke about poo.

It's a conflict of interests, a turmoil of desire, and sometimes I think the intensity of my two passions — martinis and time with my daughter — is fueled by the oscillation of my sense of satisfaction. Similar to the way an electron vibrates between two nuclei, I bounce between my two lives, bonding them together in a cloud of probability, attraction and repulsion providing enough impetus to keep me going. The pleasure of one seems predicated on the absence of the other, and maybe I'm as enamored with that dramatic tension as I am with the two divergent experiences that provide me with so much joy.

Or maybe that's just the alcohol talking.

A little bit of magic, November 2004

This happened last spring. The flight from LA to San Francisco is less than an hour, and it's a wonder — you fly over the seam of the California coast; sometimes skimming the slate blue Pacific, sometimes soaring over long swaths of California's Highway 1, which curves and dips through rolling hills and past sheer cliffs. But most of the time, you're right at that liminal place where the ocean kisses the land; sometimes gently, and sometimes with a fury that seems like passion.

I would have missed my flight, had it not been delayed by mechanical problems. But I made it, slipping past a stunning woman to my seat by the window.

I felt that palpable, universal sense of relief — she wasn't an unshowered, patchouli-wearing dude heading to NoCal, or a kindly but talkative grandma who smelled of lavender and old paper, and she wasn't a 700-pound armrest hog who breathed loudly through his nose when he wasn't burping. So I buckled myself in, took one more discrete look at the beauty beside me for the briefest of assessment (thin, professional, put-together, grown-up, Asian, not interested), and dropped into a doze that lasted until the flight attendant pushed her rickety cart back to our row.

I tried to read, then yanked my laptop out of my backpack and wrote three or four sentences before realizing I was squandering a chance to watch as we flew up the coast. It was near dusk, and the sun was bouncing rays off the waves, making the entire cabin of the airplane flicker with fiery refraction. So I just watched.

Though I could feel the face of the other passenger turned toward me, I didn't say a word to her. I don't tend to speak with people on airplanes if I can help it. I take pleasure in the relative peace of flying, the soporific drone of the engines acting as white noise for my brain. Plus, I'm terrible at starting conversations.

And she was really pretty.

But, to my surprise, she asked me a question, and it set off internal butterflies. "Excuse me, could you please tell me if we're flying over land, or water?"

"A little of both, actually," I answered. And explained. Then I commented on how I'd stopped trying to write so I could enjoy the view. I told her we were just flying over Monterey and Carmel.

We talked a little bit — the usual stuff; our first names, jobs, what we were doing on the plane. She confided in me that she was terrified of flying, so I spent the last 10 minutes of our flight talking about anything I could think of, to help her stay calm.

I thought about giving her my card as we neared baggage claim, but couldn't think of a good reason -- I was in SF for the weekend, and there was no chance of hanging out with her again. And what would be the point, really?

"Goodbye, Lisa. Good to meet you."

"Bye, Eric. Thanks for talking me down."

And that was the end of it.

Until, a few weeks later, she sent me email. Using my first name and the fact that I was a writer who lived in Denver, she managed to track me down.

Later, Lisa would tell me these things:

   1. She didn't really expect me to write back.
   2. When she first saw me in the airport, waiting for our delayed flight to board, I was having a phone conversation, and laughing, and she thought, "Frat boy — I hope I don't have to sit by him."
   3. And when I did sit by her, she figured I'd try to hit on her, and she wasn't feeling too pleased about it.
   4. But I fell asleep instead, and pretty much ignored her.
   5. My answer to her first question indicated that I was more interesting than she'd originally thought.
   6. etc.

But I didn't know any of that when I checked my email after a long day at work. I was headed out to the gym, but had to stop and sit and process. She'd looked for me! Why would someone go out of her way to find a guy, me especially, who lived half a continent away? It was flattering, and I didn't actually believe she'd written out of anything more than friendliness.

Three weeks later, I was back on an airplane, flying to the Sacramento airport. We'd emailed back and forth quite a bit (but never spoke on the phone), and she'd invited me to spend a weekend with her at Lake Tahoe. She offered to fly me out and take care of my expenses while I was there.

My friends (and youngest sister) told me I'd be an idiot to pass it up.

That Friday afternoon, I peeled myself out of my seat and shuffled my way off the plane. I tried to settle my nerves with a drink of water and a pit stop, taking a final inventory in the mirror: nasal cling-ons? Food between my teeth? Hair okay? Earwax? Eyebrows in control? Then I walked to baggage claim, excitement and inexplicable dread wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

I didn't remember exactly what she looked like, but I knew it was her when she walked into the airport. The temperature in the Central Valley was near 100 that day, but the airport was damned glacial. So even though I could feel a rivulet of perspiration ease its way down my spine, my fingers were articulated blocks of ice.

We hugged, and both blushed. Then she excused herself to hit the restroom before our two-plus hour drive to the mountains, and I immediately sent a text message to those concerned:

"Different than I remember. Very pretty."

We'd both admitted to being more nervous about those first two hours than about anything else -- talk about a crucible! We'd probably have some idea of our interpersonal compatibility before we even checked into the condominium for the weekend. Our conversation along the way was punctuated by individual realizations of our audacity. "Are we really sitting here together? Is this really happening?"

But there was no question that it was a romantic endeavor, and that we were in the midst of a really wonderful story. By the end of the first hour, we were holding hands.

The weekend was pure magic, and those momentary splashes of reality ("How did you find me?" "How did this happen?") just made it more incredible. We wandered, we hiked, we gambled away some quarters, ate great food, played and talked and laughed and wondered aloud how we'd managed to end up there together. It felt too soon to be flying back to Denver that Sunday afternoon and I still think about the dreamlike weekend we had in each other's company.

We'd connected, but didn't know what to do next.

That summer, we spent a few spectacular days at her place, where we agreed that we adored each other but knew there wasn't much we could do about it. She even spent a weekend in Denver with Simone and me. In the end, proximity, our schedules (well, mine), and reality did their part in allowing us to drift away from that initial splendor. We still trade the occasional email or text message, but the fire from that first weekend isn't much more than embers now.

It's a pity. But I'll always remember the romance and mystery of the beauty from that stunning flight up the coast who went out of her way to find me.

Grownup, October 2004

You should probably read my “Adjustment” piece first, if you haven't already. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your outpouring of comments, commiseration and advice after that column. Wow, you gave me some serious food for thought. And I was comforted by the fact that my reaction to the new situation wasn't all that unique. I mean, I want to be special, but not, you know "special."

I'm grateful to the people who reassured me that I'll always be first with Simone, and that our relationship is powerful and important. And thanks for the advice to lighten up, and really think about where my concerns were coming from. And, of course, thank you for your heartbreaking stories, and for your bitter and funny recommendations about ways to really piss off the ex and her guy.

So here's what happened at the end of September. We agreed that I should meet the boyfriend at mediation, so it would be a neutral environment, and we could all say what we needed to say. Yes, it is kind of weird that I'd never met the guy before this, considering how close a friend he'd been with my ex when we were still married, but she was living in two worlds, and was pretty adept at keeping them separate.

But anyway, a few days before this meeting was the Jewish holiday called Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement. It's a time when we fast, and ask God for forgiveness, and think about the past year, and how we can do better. In the month leading up to this most holy of days, we're also supposed to ask others for forgiveness, because only the person you've hurt can grant you that absolution.

The first year after we got divorced, I did ask Simone's mom for forgiveness (via email… I'm not THAT evolved) — mostly for the times when I'd blown a fuse and yelled or said things in my anger and hurt that weren't appropriate. But I don't think I asked her last year, and I didn't this year, either, because I felt like I needed to focus my requests for forgiveness on other people in my life.

Huh? Oh, I think you can answer that question for yourself. Of course she never asked me for forgiveness.

I had Simone with me on Yom Kippur this year, which was very special. We drove to Boulder, about 45 minutes away, on a warm and sunny autumn day, to spend the morning in services with a cousin and her daughter. I was driving along, and Simone was singing in the back, and I was thinking about the upcoming mediation session. I'm not sure how it happened, exactly, but at some point, I realized I didn't have to wait for the ex to ask me for forgiveness to excise my blame and resentment. It was a big moment for me, because, though my mom has always told me I'm just going to have to get over it, I've always held out for some small admission of poor behavior on my former wife's part.

But that gorgeous day, with my sweet daughter crooning, I understood that I couldn't change the situation — that the guy was moving in with Simone and her mother at the end of the month, and my choices were to cause more pain, or to somehow rise beyond my sense of betrayal and my worries.

The mediator was a short walk from my office. I spent the morning not really working, but feeling pretty at ease about the upcoming meeting. Friends and family called and wrote with their moral support, but I had a plan. I decided I needed to just, well, be a man. Act like a grownup, even though I still feel like a boy most of the time.

So I walked in the door, shook the guy's hand, and said, "As I was walking over here, I realized this probably isn't any easier for you than it is for me." He agreed profusely, and we all sat down, the ex and her guy on one side of the table, me on the other, the mediator at the head.

Sometimes, I think our mediator is super-human. She always seems to know what to say, and how to defuse situations. The first thing she told us was that she looks forward to our sessions, because we're so reasonable, and it's obvious that Simone is our first concern. It was the kind of encouragement you'd want to hear from someone who sees a LOT of dysfunction. Then she asked us to share our feelings about the new situation, before we got started. I volunteered to go first, and I could see Simone's mom take a deep breath.

This is what I said: "You two have made some momentous decisions, and it seems like the best thing I can do is support you in making sure Simone is safe and happy."

The room was so still, I could hear a vagrant snoring in the alley behind the building.

And for the first time in recent memory, the ex didn't have anything to say. I could see her brain working — and this is just conjecture, but I'm pretty sure I could see her trying to figure out how to pick a fight from what I'd said.

But our mediator picked up the slack, and moved things along, and by the time we all left, I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Sure, I still have pangs at times, and it's not always easy to hear Simone talk about the three of them doing fun things together. I also often ask myself if I was being a grownup by acquiescing, or just taking the path of least resistance.

But the new man in Simone's life seems like a pretty decent guy. He's not at all what I had expected from Simone's descriptions. He seems like one of those doofy, kind-hearted tech-services guys, complete with the goatee and the paunch. He was frightfully earnest, and not even a little cool, and that combination, along with his obvious desire to make peace, was really disarming. If it weren't for my internal conflict about the origins of his relationship with the ex, I would probably like him without reservation.

I even entertained the idea of getting him out for beers some night after work, because his office is just a block away from mine.

But I'm still not THAT evolved.

Be Prepared, September 2004

This column was supposed to be a play-by-play from a family camp experience I'd heard about through friends. It was one of those things where you stay in a summer camp setting in the mountains, hang out with other grown-ups and their kids, sleep in a cabin, go on hikes, ride horses. And it turned out that the participants would all be single parents and their kids, and that, according to the organizer, single dads tended to be vastly outnumbered by single moms. Sounded pretty awesome to Simone and me, for very different reasons. But, the adventure was cancelled the week before, due to a dearth of registered families, so I had to break the news to Simone, and provide her with an equally compelling alternative. I reserved us a campsite up in the mountains at a state park.

I was pretty nervous about taking her into the hills for a serious camping trip, though we had spent one night in the tent in the backyard, and that had worked out fine. Well, except for the fact that she wouldn't go to sleep at first, and I'd doze off only to be annoyed awake by a little hand dropped onto my face.

"Simone, why aren't you sleeping?"

"I don't know, Daddy."

I was feeling apprehensive about the whole deal-would I forget something important? Would she be miserable and cranky once we got all the way up there? Would we be forced to pack it in at two in the morning for some reason having to do with:

a. A urine-soaked sleeping bag?
b. Fear of unexplainable noises?
c. Deep chill?
d. Gas?

Plus, the idea of loading up the car with everything we'd need, then being forced to lug it to the campsite and carry it all back the next morning, when I'd be tired and strung out and dirty, sounded daunting. In fact, I started making a list of everything we'd need the Monday before, and added to it up until an hour before we left.

But it was what felt like a bad omen they day before our trip that really got me nettled.
We'd needed a few supplies from REI, so, in my wisdom, I took Simone along on the shopping quest. I'd just picked her up at school, and already had the impression that it had been a bit of a tough day for her. I was very clear that we'd rent a stove, buy a tarp for under the tent, and look at a couple of small essential items. She started out okay, and even agreed to take off her shoes before trying out every tent in the store. And we were almost done. I was at the register, getting ready to pay for our supplies, when she found a little magnet of a scorpion.

A little magnet. For eight freaking dollars.

I gave the clerk a smile, then turned to Simone and told her we weren't getting it. That's when she said, "I won't go camping with you if you don't buy it for me." The clerk guffawed, amazed at my four-year-old's audacity. I told Simone I still wasn't buying it, and we could cancel the trip if that's how it was going to be. I paid the guy, picked up the bag of stuff, but still had to go back into the store to grab the rental stove-one of those double-burner deals.

Simone followed along, scorpion magnet in hand. The rental person finalized the paperwork, while I tried to reason with Simone. Finally, it was time to go, so I took the scorpion out of her hand, and put it on the counter.

(I really, really wish I had figured out how to get her to put it back herself. It was a big lapse of judgment on my part. I was rushed and tired, but I should have taken a deep breath, and sorted things out.)

And that's when Simone had the biggest public temper tantrum/meltdown I've ever seen. People two time zones away turned to look at the screaming child. Yup, my girl. The one who said she wanted to go live with Mommy. The one who shouted, "You're not my daddy if you don't let me get the magnet." So I did the only thing I could do — I threw her over my shoulder, picked up the bag and went to grab the stove.

Luckily, the employee who'd rented it to me offered to carry it out to the car. The three of us, one of whom was screaming and crying and kicking, another who wanted to scream and cry and kick (and swear) and the last who was bemused and maybe a little bit entertained, made our obnoxious parade through the store, through the parking lot and to the car. The raised eyebrows, we encountered along the way only added to my embarrassment. The clerk wished me luck, and headed back inside.

I carefully urged Simone into the back of the car, and belted her into her carseat. She was still screaming. She was still telling me she hated me (which is a word I've said we don't use in our family), and still saying how she wanted to live only with her mom. So I shut the door of the car, and leaned up against it for a minute. I could smell autumn in the breeze, and closed my eyes to feel the sun on my face. Then I sent my sister a text message, telling her I was counting to 10 because I didn't want to spank my daughter.

That helped, so I got into my car, which was filled with shrieks and invective, and started the long drive home. My plan had been to stop at a fun restaurant, eat there, then go to the playground because the evening was so beautiful. We had no food for dinner in the house, at least nothing that I wanted to eat, so I had no choice but to stop somewhere.

All I could think was, "Damn, camping is going to be like this. It's a bad idea."

But the camping trip went off incredibly well-we set up the tent, went for a hike, cooked dinner over a fire and then roasted marshmallows, buried her poo up away from the site (three different times), and even put out the fire, turned off her headlamp, and shared a cup of Sleepytime tea while gazing up at the stars before turning in. She didn't cry when I left the tent to pee in the middle of the night, and she didn't wake up at five in the morning. It was one of the most fulfilling and joyful experiences we've had together.

It went much, much better than I'd dared to hope, standing in the parking lot of REI, holding the bridge of my nose. And it made me, for the millionth time, wonder how kids manage to surprise their parents again and again. I'd never seen her freak out like she did at the store, and though I knew she was adaptable, I also didn't expect her to be so flexible and relaxed on our camping trip. In 24 hours, I saw my daughter at her absolute worst, and then watched her bloom and grow right in front of me.

Parenting is so empirical — the lessons we learn about our children should come with "best if used by" labels.

Adjustment, August 2004

She asked if we could meet in person "about this fall." Considering we do almost all of our negotiation and/or arguing via e-mail, I knew there was more at stake than figuring out Simone's school schedule and sorting logistics around their upcoming move to a rented house several miles away.

Game face
So I braced myself, put on my game face, and met her at a Starbucks right after work.

It was a hot summer day, and between the walk from the train to my car, which was an oven by 4:30 in the afternoon, and the thought of the upcoming festivities at the coffee shop, I was sweaty and uncomfortable, and probably looking mildly dissolute in my shirt and loosened tie as I sat down across from her. She had a bottle of water waiting for me, which I found both disarming and suspicious.

Her small-talk was obviously an attempt to put off the inevitable, but I let it go, because I have a fantasy that one day we'll be friends again. Every so often, I make an attempt to reconnect on a human level -- I'll tell her I thought of her at a movie I saw, and that she should check it out. Or I'll share a vignette about Simone's latest precocious ramble regarding some "monstrosity" she learned about in her educational videos.

What I tend to receive is an icy reply, if I get anything at all. But I try, because I'm unable to hold a grudge, and I know that Simone's better off if we get along. In spite of the last vestiges of anger and disappointment I still feel about all this, I can't help but tell myself that we were once friends, and that we had something in common. I can't remember why or how I loved her, but I'm sure I did, and I owe it to my own well-being to interact with her with that foundation in mind. It doesn't always work, but it does keep me from being purposely spiteful. And I'm always genuine in my interactions with her, even when that honesty seems mightily unwelcome.

So I let her talk about books and their new house, and waited for the kaboom. She set it up in the cheesiest of ways, but to her, I guess, it was romantic. She spoke of how she and her boyfriend had been to a lot of weddings lately, and that he mentioned that they'd been together for awhile (okay, and, to get this out of the way, she and I don't agree on how long they've been romantically entwined, if you know what I mean), and that she should be "pinned." Then she explained that pinning meant they were "pre-engaged."

All I could think was, "Whatever."

Finally, she told me this guy, this "kid" she'd been seeing, would be moving in with her and Simone at the end of September.

I don't know if my face went pale, but I nodded my head, took a sip of my chai, and said,"That's obviously something I'm going to need to process for a little while."

So I'm going to process it. Right here. As an aside, I really appreciate your e mails — it sounds like the stuff I'm writing each month has an audience, and that I'm articulating some common struggles pretty well. So if you have advice or thoughts on this matter, please share. I'm feeling a little lost, and I'd love to share your wisdom in an upcoming column.

Anyway. She asked me if I'd like to meet the man who's taking a pretty big role in Simone's life, and I said, "I don't want to, but I think I should." So the three of us are going to meet with our mediator before the big move-in.

The thing is, Simone's been talking about this young man since a month or two after we signed the divorce papers, and I know that her mom and this guy had been friends for nearly a year before I even realized our marriage was in trouble. I've always been uncomfortable with her relationship with him. Whatever the nature of the time they spent together, and their e-mails and phone calls, I believe she put energy into that relationship which could have been better used in our marriage.

She doesn't agree that he had any effect on what happened, or at least she'll never admit to it. I truly believe that, if she ever came clean with me, and just said, "Yes, we behaved badly, and yes, it was a factor in the dissolution of our marriage," I could say, "thank you," and be done with it.

My mother knows I feel this way, and as she's reading right now, she's about to say, "Get over it. She'll never admit she was wrong." My mom is right. And every day, I get a little closer to being "over it." But, man! It would be easier to deal with this new development if a different boyfriend (heck, or even a girlfriend!) were moving in with my daughter and her mom. I'm not against Simone's mother falling in love and being happy. I'm just frustrated that the kid I believe had a hand in splitting my family apart is the one she loves. I'd be happy to meet her boyfriend — really — if it were anyone else. But it's not.

And the more I've thought about all this, the less that detail has mattered. (Though, to be honest, I've had my share of daydreams about the first time I meet him:

   1. No handshake, just "Hello, fuckbag."
   2. A punch to the neck.
   3. A fervent handshake, then "Thank you. Thank you so much." "Why?" "Oh, you'll find out soon enough."
   4. "I find out you hurt my daughter, and…"

But, really, in the long run, Simone likes the guy, he's been a stable force in her life, and jeez, because of him (or not, depending on who you ask), I don't have to live with Simone's mom anymore. He does!

I'm really freaking happy 84 percent of the time. Dating is great, getting my daughter to myself tends to be truly rewarding, and in the last two years, I've gathered enough fodder to fuel several books and cable TV series, not to mention this monthly column.

I'm better off. I don't believe Simone is, but at least she's happy and loved and well-adjusted.

But that's where things break down
Because, no matter the genesis of their relationship, Simone's mom and this guy are not married. Not even engaged. And I feel uncomfortable with Simone growing up in an environment where her mom's sleeping in the same bed with a guy who's not her husband. It's not that I'm against cohabitation; it's that, at some point, Simone's going to have to explain her living situation to a friend or a teacher, or, God forbid, a social worker. Those explanations will begin to shape her understanding of love and commitment and relationships. And Simone's mom has yet to describe to me how she plans on addressing the issue with our daughter.

At the very least, I need to know what language she's using, so we can be consistent.

I have some issues sharing the guardian role with a guy who's not even almost 30, but my bigger concern is Simone's moral well-being. I'm not judging her mom's morality per se, just the situation that she's putting her daughter in by sharing a home and bed with her boyfriend.

So that's what I'm going to stick with. I'm going to have to deal with this guy, and accept him into my life. I have no choice in the matter. And I have to trust that Simone's mom is going to do what she thinks is best for our daughter most of the time. But in this situation, I think her judgment is clouded. Love does that. I'm sure the thought of having this guy live with them sounds amazing. In many ways, it will be fulfilling for all three of them. But it's still a questionable arrangement, especially when it comes to the way the outside world will react. And Simone doesn't have the tools to deal with that.

Crap. I don't know if I have the tools to deal with it. Part of me would just like to say, "Do what you think is best," and roll with the change. It would be easier in so many ways. But I owe it to my girl to make sure she's safe and happy. And that means being a grownup and facing the issues. I don't look forward to sitting across the table from Simone's mom and her guy — they'll be a unit, and I'll be alone.

This is only one of many adjustments we'll all have to make as Simone grows older, and our own lives change. Great.

But it's better than being married to her mom, so I guess I shouldn't complain.

Absence, July 2004

It's 7 a.m. and I miss my daughter. I'm on an airplane making its way west, flying me home to Colorado after eight days of vacation. The sun has just come up, chasing away Venus. From my window seat, I can see the mottled blue expanse of Lake Tahoe, and beyond that, miles and miles of dirt and crag and hill and valley. And I don't know if I'll see Simone tonight or have to wait until tomorrow, because her mother hasn't told me when they're returning to Denver.

I haven't seen my girl since the morning her mom came to pick her up 10 days ago. It was early on a Friday. I was dressed and ready for work, cuddling with Simone in my bed, where she'd spent the night next to me. I'd taken off work the day before to be with her, and it had been a very special time for the two of us. But that night, after we'd closed the last book of the day, and were snuggled up on her single bed and staring at the ceiling, she whispered, "I'll miss you, Daddy." So I asked her if she wanted to sleep in my room, and carried her there.

That night, for once, I shirked the freelance and the kitchen, the laundry, the evening's attempt at tidying, and brushed and flossed and washed, and found myself dozing next to my little girl, who was sacked out after our busy day, emanating the soft warmth that only she can, her mouth slightly open, a tiny arm thrown over my chest, the fingers of her hand resting on my neck.

So I woke her quietly, gently, the next morning, with a cuddle and a kiss. And she arose conscious of the day's events, her excitement tempered by the knowledge that we'd be apart for a long time. A few minutes later, her mother called to say she'd pulled up in the driveway.

I carried Simone, vulnerable and sweet in her pink pajamas, out of the house. Waiting in the car were her mother and my former mother-in-law, whom I hadn't seen in nearly two years. (And who, I must note, didn't get out of the car. And though she greeted me with a cheerful hello, I couldn't help but feel a pang from her disinclination to hop out and hug me. How I went from beloved family member to begrudged acquaintance in the time it took her daughter to sign the divorce documents still causes me pain. I adored my mother-in-law. Even now, I send her links to pictures of Simone online. But I think she just doesn't know how to be human to me and still support her daughter. Or maybe she just doesn't care to be, which hurts much worse.)

They were on their way to Omaha, where Simone and her mom would spend more than a week with the grandparents. Seven kisses and three extra-urgent hugs later, Simone was strapped into the car seat and waving goodbye. I walked into the house and tried to put myself back together before I left for work.

So I decided to take a long vacation. I'd considered staying in town and taking some time off, or trying to find a cheap deal to foreign parts or at least a beachy place. All I knew was that I needed to be away. I needed to distract myself from this enforced separation, the longest since Simone was a baby. I settled on a trip to the familiar — a few days in San Francisco to visit with my youngest sister and to carouse with my best single friend, then a couple days in Sacramento with my mother.

My mother: who cries when I leave after a visit because she misses me so much.

Sorry, Mom
Before Simone came around, I don't think I understood what Mom goes through every time she kisses one of her children goodbye. But now I know the enduring sense of vulnerability having a living, breathing piece of your heart walking around in this world can bring, and I'm awestruck and humbled by my connection with my parents. But as much as I love to be with my mother and father, I've realized that, in some ways, they need me even more than I need them. See, I know Simone misses me, but it can't compare to the grief I feel to be away from her like this.

It's just a little more than a week, I know. And here and there I've been fine -- fully enjoying my vacation; my chance to get away, to disengage from the daily grind. But then I'll look at the screensaver on my cell phone. Or I'll watch a pigtailed toddler holding her daddy's hand as they stroll. Or I'll catch the whiff of fresh doughnuts. Or nothing at all that I notice consciously will deposit the image of Simone in my head, and my stomach will tighten. Everything will dim the slightest bit, as if a wisp of cloud has drifted in front of the sun, stealing the sparkle from the world for a little while. And I'll whisper, "Oh, sweetheart. Oh, baby."

I used to travel fairly regularly, before the divorce. A weekend every couple of months or so, or a week here and there for special events. I'd miss Simone, I'd miss my wife. And there were certainly times when I'd get those same waves of longing. But something's more poignant now, sharper. It's like there's more at stake when I'm away from her because we're not a unit anymore. When I'm not with her, there's no one around to remind her of my presence in her life. It's totally up to her to think about me. (Except for the occasional short phone call, where she sounds so grown up when she's recounting her adventures, and where the distance between us is most palpable).

Maudlin thoughts at the end of a really fun vacation, no? Maybe it's part of the depression that always accompanies the return to the real world. But there's deeper stuff going on in my heart — the knowledge of the effect of my absence for my own parents; the realization that something could happen to me and it would be up to my family alone, thousands of miles away, to somehow keep my love for and devotion to Simone alive in her heart; and the understanding that some day, too soon, my baby girl will leave for more than a few days — she’ll grow up and move on, only to comfort me with her presence when she can get around to it. Missing me, but not needing me. Kissing me goodbye at the airport, expectant and already halfway across the map while I'm still fighting back tears.

So I'm on the plane, and we're just about to start our final approach into Denver. And I wonder what it would have been like if we were still a family — if the aches would be different, or not as deep. It's fun to be single. It's fun to run off and play for a week. But the tradeoffs are very real at 9 o'clock in the morning, flying over the Rocky Mountains, wondering when I get to see my daughter again.