An Explanation: June, 2009

I’m writing this column on a plane flying from Seattle back to Denver. A cute baby is asleep on the seat next to me, one hand outstretched, the other curved in a ball by her face. When I first sat down, she couldn’t help rubbing my arm; I think she liked the way the soft hair felt. We cooed at each other. Some days, I really want one more little one.

Anyway. I traveled to the Pacific Northwest for a Monday morning meeting with an influential leader — a new client, but a potential mentor as well. But I arrived Friday so that I could explore Seattle and treat myself to an escape. I had no agenda (except to eat my way through the city), and had just one friend who lived in the area (but he’d be out of town). I was prepared to be my own company.

Before I left, I reached out to a Twitter friend (a single mom) who lives in Seattle for some advice about what to see and do. In the course of our emails, we decided to try to grab a drink if her single parenting schedule worked out.

But mostly I’d be on my own. There were times over the weekend when I wished I had someone with whom to share my adventures, like when I was sitting on a dock at Bainbridge Island, sipping at a dirty chai and listening to the rigging from the myriad sailboats in the harbor elicit rhythmic, percussive notes like a ghostly steel drum band, or laying bed after a full day, looking at the photos I’d taken and not having anyone there sharing her photos back. But, mostly, the solo time was good for me. Really good.

So my Twitter pal Stacy reached out to me, and told me that she and another single mom wanted to take me out on the town for a night of Dating Dad-style carousing. They picked me up on Saturday evening, and we found our way to a seafood place for our first stop. What I didn’t realize until halfway through our bucket of steamed clams and first set of cocktails was that Stacy and Jenn were Dating Dad readers. I thought we’d met through Twitter, but the reality was that, for more than a year, Stacy had been recommending my blog to newly divorced parents she met. My stories were meaningful enough to her for her to share them. It was a truly humbling and gratifying moment.

See, it’s one thing to read the comments left at the bottom of a new post—they’re powerful and remind me that I have an audience. But to actually come face to face with, well...fans, was something entirely new. We had such a funny and wonderful evening, the three of us. I’m still smiling about it.

Stacy’s friend Jenn told me that the first column she read was a Peach one, and she immediately thought, “That guy’s a jerk.” (“You’re right,” I said to her. “I was a jerk.”) But then she went back to the beginning, and took a whole morning to read every post. What she recognized, by the end, was that my Dating Dad chronicles are a progression, a process. A narrative.

How long have I been “The Dating Dad”? Years. It started as something I did only for myself — capturing my thoughts and experiences as written words, as a way to process the disorientation, the adventures, the humiliating errors and frustrations I encountered while navigated a landscape rife with the obstacles, potholes, mountains to climb, and vistas I never could have imagined before I was cut loose from the comfort and creative stultification of my domestic enclosure.

When I had a few good columns written, I shared them, cautiously, with writers and journalist friends. Eventually, an editor I knew from SheKnows.com asked if they could publish them on their network of parenting websites. They even offered to pay me for them (when you could still get paid for web content). Agreeing meant that I had to commit to writing a new column each month.

But once I got started, I found that I had many stories to tell. A year or so in, the web publishers got behind on posting my work (and also informed me they could no longer pay). So, after a couple of emails from readers asking why I hadn’t written anything in a couple of months, I decided to start this blog and just publish them myself.

I posted all of my stuff from the past in a single sitting, then started with new content. My first readers were the ones my own mother sent my way. Every month, she’d email a passel of friends and family the link to my latest post. And every month, the audience would grow a little bit. The occasional email would come in, or comment would be posted about how something I had written had resonated with a reader — a single mom or dad traveling along the same path; someone who was also foundering when I was, hoping for love but worried about his or her fitness to be in a relationship again; a loving parent; someone still angry with me for my immature behavior more than a decade and a half ago (you’ll keep writing your anonymous vitriol, and I’ll keep hoping you’ll engage with me in a meaningful way so you can let go of that anger and I can breathe past the guilt that still sneaks in on vulnerable days).

At some point, I had to make a decision about where to take my Dating Dad musings—how could I be true to my experiences and learning, how could I be true to the readers who read my writing because of its candor, while respecting the privacy of the people who had an impact on the stories I wanted to tell?

I gave myself some guidelines:

1. Don’t use real names, except for Simone and me (I sometimes wonder if I should have changed Simone’s name)
2. Try not to write about anything too current if it involves someone else (e.g. don’t write about someone I just went out on a date with)
3. Try to tie my stories to universal concepts, rather than making them a travelogue—make each column more than just another “here’s what I did” narrative.

When I’m on a date with someone who’s read my stuff, the first question is often, “How can you be so public about your life?” For some, the fact that I have this blog is a deal-breaker. For others, the fact that I’m open with my struggles and that I so obviously strive to be a good father seems like a promise.

The answer isn’t complicated. I’m compelled to share my successes and failures as a parent who’s hoping for his next big love because I’m rewarded for it in so many ways. I feel the satisfaction of working through my own stuff. I get feedback, mostly positive, from readers who are touched by my writing. I get to write about things that are important to me. And, in some ways, this blog is one long love letter to my precious daughter. This column has become more than just a way for me to chronicle my process; it’s a connection for others, too.

My honesty and openness has had very real consequences in my dating life. And the feedback and fallout are not always positive. But, after meeting two generous, darling single moms who look forward to each new column, and after connecting with others, whether it’s via Facebook or Twitter or blogs, who find resonance in my stories, how could I not continue to write?

In a training session I recently ran on how to use Twitter, Facebook, and other social media for building awareness, someone asked me what would happen to the name of this blog and to my Twitter handle (@datingdad) when I was no longer single.

I answered, “I cannot wait until I have that problem to deal with.

Comments

[EJ]

A passel of friends? Who says that? Your vocabulary is bigger than *insert single man anatomy comment here*.

Seriously though, your writing and your behavior is something I feel is continually impressive.

As one of your closer friends (I think!), it has been quite a journey following you as a passenger on your trip to happiness. I'm proud of the way you have handled yourself and I'm glad to be a part of your life.

I think your experience is helpful to us single men who have never been married. I often look to you for advice on pretty much anything dating related. Sometimes, I don't follow your suggestions. More often than not, your insight proves incredibly helpful to me and my own dating woes.

You're a good man, Dating Dad!

[Audrey]

I had wondered some of this... and from this single mom fan to the currently 'Dating Dad' ... Thank you for sharing the single dad's perspective with the world and us single moms. I hope to be so fortunate to meet you as well, face to face, if for nothing more than to smother you in hugs from a kindred spirit.