As a single mother of two, my dating life could be described as “barely functional” at best. Recently, I found myself with a chance to spend an evening in a somewhat dubious motel with a stunning man I had only spoken to twice on the phone. After a frantic scramble to arrange childcare for my two and nine-year-old kids, I prepared for what would be my first night alone with a man in three long years.
With my friends rallying behind me—sending supportive “Are you still alive?” texts the next morning—I met him, smiled, and almost leaned in for a kiss. Once we got to our room, I felt a surge of confidence and desire. My body transformed from a vessel of motherhood to something vibrant and alluring. My breasts, once merely functional, were now full and enticing. He appreciated them a bit too much, resulting in a rather humorous incident involving breast milk spraying everywhere. We both laughed it off, but the memory still makes my eye twitch.
After the birth of my second daughter, my sex drive vanished for over a year. Just the sound of kissing made me feel sick. Then, a friend introduced me to a guy who looked like he could be Ryan Gosling’s twin. I developed feelings too quickly, but he wasn’t interested in anything serious. Undeterred, I ventured onto OKCupid, determined to learn how to connect with men and maybe even regain some trust in them.
After a couple of months of awkward attempts and rejections that chipped away at my self-esteem, I took a break from dating for five months to concentrate on my freelance writing. I wrote my way out of financial struggles, eventually earning enough to put my younger daughter in full-time daycare. And naturally, I found my way to Tinder.
I soon realized that Montana is home to a plethora of single men, many of whom proudly displayed photos of themselves with dead animals—definitely a left swipe for me. Eventually, I had to engage with some of the matches, but once I casually mentioned being a single mom, at least half of them vanished, either unmatching me or going silent.
Six months prior, this might have devastated me. I had entered the dating scene feeling like a burden, with little money to spend on a sitter for a night out. I viewed myself as someone who needed pity and understanding rather than as a worthy partner. But despite the milk mishap, I didn’t feel embarrassed. He called me sexy, and for the first time, I actually believed it. Though I enjoyed his company, I wasn’t ready to dive into a serious relationship. Instead, I savored the opportunity to take my time, meet various people, and explore my options.
My standards began to soar. I started seeing myself as someone to be pursued rather than someone who needed to chase. I met firefighters, lawyers, musicians, and even an Australian cyclist who had been traveling the world for two decades.
Navigating the “kid card” remains tricky. Often, I feel like I’m being dishonest when I say I’m doing “great!” on a Saturday morning while cleaning up after my kid’s latest adventure with vomit. I used to hesitate to mention my children, fearing it would make me less desirable to men who claimed to want a partner with no strings attached. But why should being a single mom be seen as a disadvantage? In fact, we should celebrate our resilience. We know how to have fun on a budget, solve problems quickly, and maintain our composure during any tantrum—all invaluable skills in life and dating.
Remember, if you’re on a date with a single mom, she’s giving you her precious time. She could be at home relaxing or spending time with friends, but instead, she’s with you.
Dating as a single mom remains a source of joy for me, and I don’t introduce anyone to my kids just yet—especially since my nine-year-old loves to ask, “Are you going to be my stepdad?” if she spots us sharing a kiss. I’m content to wait for someone strong enough to stick around. For the first time, I feel like we’re worth the wait. All single moms are.