My parents have been happily married for 51 years! I am deeply in awe. But I singularly failed to learn the right, or even any lessons from their very successful union.

Growing up, I was shy and awkward at the best of times. For added pain, my brain would simply power off if a boy talked to me. I wish I were exaggerating.  I eventually (slowly,  painfully) gained self-confidence. Dating remained challenging though. There was no fairy godmother, no glass slipper, no enchanted forest, no tall doorless tower, no lamp genie to help me recover from my slow start.  To be honest, my career choices didn’t help. I studied nursing in a cohort that was 100% female, then I studied midwifery. Same stats.

To cut a long story short, my dating track record was, and remains, unimpressive. Loyal reader, I did get married. It didn’t work out. I have zero regrets though, and I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat (mostly because I wouldn’t expect my 2nd- chance-self to listen to me any more than I listened to those who were brave enough to warn me it was folly the first time!) I was in love, he was gorgeous, I got to walk down the aisle in a beautiful dress, I had the children I dreamed of having.

I ought to have been a great wife. I was brought up by a fabulous husband/wife duo. I knew my role. All I had to do was bring up the kids, run the house, and work part time (extra kudos to those who work full time). Not rocket science. I’d always wanted kids, and I’d always known that, being the one with the womb, it would be my job to grow them, nurture them, keep them alive. I didn’t mind. That’s what my mum did and I never heard her complain. And, not saying it was easy, but she’s still married.

I tried to be that wife. Turns out I’m not a saint. Or a martyr. Or sufficiently grateful for being taken off the shelf. I tend to insist on a modicum of meaningful spousal teamwork. And complain bitterly when I feel I’m doing all the donkey work without respite. Crazy, huh?

So, anyway, I’ve been single for a while now. I frequently get asked about getting back out there: reader, I have. I’m a seasoned Internet dater. I was an early adopter of online dating because, well, my chances of meeting someone at the school gates were negligible; there’s no-one to date at work (seriously, apart from some male obstetricians – and I ain’t going there, they’ve seen/done things… I mean it’s their job and they’re amazing,  but… hell no!) there are no guys; and I’m waaay too old and tired for pubbing and clubbing.

Internet dating has it’s pros and cons though. On the plus side, the vast majority of the guys are polite, sweet and caring. I mean, sure, you have to filter out the less eligible ones before you venture out on a date. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to know how to take a decent selfie, and often ignore the bit where they’re meant to tell you about themselves. So picking a decent chap based on the available info is a bit tricky. And they tend to want someone ten years younger. With no baggage. And hot.

How can I blame them? That’s what I’m looking for!

And that’s the problem.  Like me, I suspect most of these guys would willingly compromise on all these things, but sometimes our filters are set with perfection in mind, so we miss some pretty good matches. The quest for perfect Prince (Princess) Charming is all too real though, we all play the game as though we can win the jackpot. The guys want the fairy tale wife (she cooks, launders, cleans, makes him feel young – by being younger –  and will take care of his kids);  the girls want the mythical husband (he cooks, launders and cleans his full share without being asked, is interested in similar things because he’s her age, he’ll coparent their kids). Hope thrives despite the expectation misalignment. Sometimes,  compromise happens.

Like so many things, dating does get easier with age and practice. I now unapologetically know (even like) who I am. I know what I want, and how to ask. I suspect I’m (still) asking too much, but I live in hope, and there’s plenty of good times to be had in searching. But challenges remain… looking to the future, I’m not keen to become someone’s nurse just when I’d be hoping to start enjoying grannydom in, say, 15-20 years time.  I should just live in the moment, I know, but… if I were to post a profile today, I could date an attractive 60 year old tomorrow. He’d be at least 75 when putative grand babies might start appearing. It would be pretty mean to skeddadle at that point.  But grand children sound like much more fun, and you can return them whenever! Plus, grand kids could happen anywhere in the world, so I’d need freedom and flexibility to go wherever they are, with a view to feeding them ice-cream and pizza. Cos sometimes you have to give karma a helping hand! So my mythical rest-of-life partner would have to be my age or younger, willing to care for small humans, blessed with a fabulously flexible work life balance… yup, I’m still getting it hopelessly wrong. I’m gonna say it: I’m looking for a wife! Always have been. Not gonna lie, what I’ve been getting instead has been extra children. Some more mature than others but none remotely achieving partnership status. That’s just me though, I’m not great at choosing, I freely admit that.

Thing is, I’m not too fussed. At my age, maintaining the relationships I’ve built up over the years with family and friends seems like a more sensible use of time. Being single allows me to have slob days, to take up the whole bed, to watch foreign language stuff or Friends on Netflix, to cook whatever/whenever I want to eat, to do only my own life-admin, to generally get things done correctly and without pointless delay. If I want to nag, or otherwise waste my time asking big kids to help me with household tasks in a meaningful way, my actual kids are happy to play victim to my outrageous demands. It’s not forever! I sure as hell don’t want a rest-of-life-child!

The ugly naked truth is that I never wanted what my parents had. I wanted what my dad had. The sad reality is that my kids don’t want what I have. They see what their dad has (fun dad time every other weekend) and they see what I have (everything else). They aren’t blind. When Firstborn Son and Middle Child quote Andrew “women should stay home” Tate, and Only Daughter states unprompted (already trying to find a work-around),  that she’ll adopt (a 12 year old) it’s hard not to conclude they’ve all internalised that norm. The boys have to believe my extra X chromosome is what predisposed me to choose to devote my life to them in a way that their dad seemingly could not. Andrew Tate and his ilk provide reassurance that this is indeed the case, so that’s ok, and they can envisage having the same life. Yet, despite my best efforts to be different, independent, rule-breaking, marriage defying, that’s what I’ve ended up teaching them. By example. That women stay home, take care of the kids, maybe work part time assuming they can be at the school gates on time.

Thing is, they never saw me, their mother on her weekends off.  Behaving as badly as I wanted (ok, I never took my freedom to extremes, but…) they rarely saw the care-free side of me. To them, like the dark side of the moon, that side of me is there but not there.  And yet, those weekends gave me space to breathe, to regroup, to sleep, to be utterly selfish on the Saturday. And to maintain my midwifery identity (and qualification) by working on the Sunday.

If I couldn’t be an exemplary wife, I could at least be the decent (ish) stay at home mother that I thought I had to be for 12 out of 14 days. But in doing so I perpetuated the mythical mother fantasy. Not exactly furthering gender equality for the next generation. Oh dear. Nil points for moi. But that’s not how I want to end this post. Because I think it’s worth adding that my ex and I did end up working as as a team. Not in the conventional sense – neither of us were cut out for convention, it turns out – but our arrangement, which he reliably respected, allowed me to have those regular breathers from motherhood. And for that I am genuinely grateful.