Dating a man with kids
But in the meantime, Noah isn't going anywhere. That doesn't make me any less resentful whenever I attend a wedding by myself or forgo a week in Paris because Bob can't afford to go. Noah is not allowed to wipe his hands on the couch (yay! He is not the master of the in—car music selection (although we have lately found a nice middle ground in Michael Jackson's Bad). ) And, in the end, he's looking for his place in this family. "It's no wonder he questions who I am—especially when I'm still questioning who I am.(He earns far more than I do but, with child support, takes home less.)I know that one of the many reasons I love Bob is precisely because of the qualities I see in him when he is with his son. (Then again, I never was an easy child.) Perhaps what bothers me the most is that I will never be the most important relationship in my boyfriend's life. But there are still days when I don't give in when he wants to go to Dunkin' Donuts and I want Starbucks. I insist I'm teaching a lesson in compromise, when really, I'm trying to reclaim my TV and my life, in what I hope is some small, harmless way. (Ditto.) The other day, I heard him ask Bob if I was his girlfriend. But like everyone in this world, Noah wants to feel safe and know that he's loved.Before that, he called me "Joanie." Joanie is the cat.) When I started to realize how difficult the relationship might be to navigate, and that I was possibly facing a future as a stepmom, it was too late. If it wasn't going to come naturally—and I wasn't sure it would—it seemed the only thing to do was to learn to love Noah as well.We all moved in together a year ago—Bob and I full-time, Noah every other weekend and Wednesdays overnight.And usually, I am—as long as we're both in the mood for it. Then I realize that he probably feels the same way.
Mommy's Christmas tree was also bigger, with better ornaments.
Before Noah, I had very little experience with children. At 33, I haven't yet decided against children, but I can't picture having them, either. (Mostly for my mom.) I've just never been a person who sees a baby and reaches for it. Home for the holidays, I'll lie about and let my mom whip up grilled cheese and stitch loose buttons, while my dad busies himself fixing the rattle in my car.
This has seemed to satisfy any maternal instincts I might have. Even in adulthood, I still settle back into childhood whenever I'm so indulged.
He talks nearly nonstop from the moment he gets up until the moment he succumbs to sleep.
And yet, although it's perfectly acceptable, probably even normal, for a mother to admit that her own child drives her bananas at times, I cannot.