For childless women like me, dating single fathers is a no-brainer
Friends envy Xenia Taliotis for being a ‘footloose’ fiftysomething, but she craves a ready-made family
‘You’re mad”; “Why would you want to tie yourself down like that?”; “Just have mine!” These are the standard responses of my friends when I tell them that – having recently started trying to date again – that my top requirement in a new partner these days is that he must have children.
Like me, most of my friends are in their early fifties. Unlike me, most are parents and still in the throes of teenage tantrums, ferrying their children around and worrying about parties and exam results.
As they see it, it’s bad enough when they’re your own; I certainly shouldn’t be trying to complicate my life with other people’s kids. I’d be best off with someone in a similar position to mine, with the freedom to do as I please, travel whenever I wish and – because I’m not raising a family – apparently enjoy a frivolous existence.
They see me leading a great life, with social engagements, the ability to indulge my passions and whims and, most precious of all, with time to myself. Conversely, I see my existence as empty and utterly devoid of anything I can truly invest in. I feel that I have missed out on so much already – from pregnancy cravings to playground politics. And I know the missing will continue beyond that. I won’t know what it feels like to meet and moan about first boy- or girlfriends, go to graduations, be a grandmother. For me, being childless does not mean footloose, but being trapped in a state of perpetual longing.
My friend Jane (not her real name), who married a much older man with young children, and wasn’t able to have any of her own, is delighted with how life has turned out.
“The boys were a part of our relationship from the word go,” she
says. “They had problems with their mother, so they moved in with us. Admittedly, this was a shock. I was only in my mid-twenties and suddenly I had an eight-year-old and a 12-yearold to look after.
“I have to say, though, that raising the boys has been one of the most rewarding things I’ve done. They’re adults now, one is married and the other lives abroad, but we’re in constant contact and I feel totally immersed in their lives.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a mother – ever since I was capable of wishful thinking. In fact, my earliest and most vivid memory is from when I was five years old and in the car with my family, driving back to our house in Nicosia, Cyprus, after visiting my dad’s sister.
“Mama, why doesn’t Aunty Ioulia have any children? Doesn’t she like them?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, she can’t have them,” said my mum.
“When I grow up, I’m going to have 100 children,” I replied.
Yet, throughout my twenties and thirties, I allowed a constant flow of not-quite-rights to stop me from trying to conceive: the wrong flat, the wrong job, the wrong man, the wrong time
– a long sequence of circumstantial life events that, to my eternal regret, I allowed to override my desire for a child. I didn’t realise that I was letting opportunity pass me by. This – when added to my natural predisposition to leave anything I could do tomorrow until then, or maybe the day after
– has, in part, brought me to my childless middle age.
But not only that.
When I was in my mid-thirties, I fell in love with someone I could see myself growing old with. Quite soon after we met, he wanted a child, but at the time I preferred to wait. It wasn’t until my late thirties, with my fertility probably in the last chance saloon, that I finally felt “ready”.
Putting any anxieties that we were both freelance and living in my onebedroom flat aside, we decided to see if we could conceive. Tragically, we didn’t get any time to find out, because
Being childless does not mean footloose, but trapped in a state of perpetual longing
my beautiful man collapsed on the street with a brain aneurysm and died in hospital just 10 weeks later.
Grief hits people in different ways. I joined the support group WAY (Widowed and Young) and met many “wids” who quickly threw themselves into new relationships. They felt the only counterbalance to death was life, so they went on to have children with a new partner within months of being bereaved. I fell into the opposite camp.
My grief was insatiable. It swallowed me alive and left me with no emotional energy for anyone. Lindsay Nicholson, the former editor of Good
Housekeeping, summed it up perfectly when she described grieving as being like living on the seabed, blindly crawling along in the dark and cold.
Crying and working – often simultaneously – were all I was capable of, but the desire for a child remained. And so, one cold January day, I drove hundreds of miles in howling rain to a fertility centre to see if I could have my eggs frozen.
Although I was already 42, my hormone levels were excellent – apparently those of a 37‑year‑old – so, physically, I was a good candidate. My mental state was a different matter.
The consultant who saw me considered me too fragile for ovary‑ stimulating drugs, which have been known to exacerbate anxiety and depression, and said that it would be medically negligent to approve me for the procedure.
The door to motherhood was closing, but what rammed it shut and bolted it forever was my getting breast cancer at 45, and treatment that involved five years of ovarian suppression and ongoing daily medication.
Which brings me to now. At 54, I am too old to have my own children. Even with the greatest advances in fertility treatment and using a young woman’s eggs, my chances of carrying a pregnancy to full‑term are close to zero. But there is a bigger impediment: the hormones I’d need to take might wake up any remaining cancer cells in my body.
Some people ask whether I’ve considered adoption. Well, even with my poor maths I can add up: cancer + middle age + single + freelance = no thank you.
I’m fortunate in that I am close to my brother’s grown‑up sons, my cousin’s three young children, and I have lifelong friends who have allowed me to be a part of their family’s lives – but, of course, it’s not the same.
And so to Plan Z: a single man who already has children.
Admittedly, so far, it’s not been a great success. I’ve met a much older (too old) grandfather, a man who’s estranged from his only son, and someone whose children are living overseas.
Perhaps my best prospect was my first date. Online, he looked like an ideal match. His politics aligned with mine, he was my age, shared the same taste in films and theatre and, most thrillingly of all, had young children, whom he cared for 50:50 with his ex‑ wife.
I was in love with our new life before we had even met. I pictured myself at the school gates, helping out with their homework, introducing them to some of the books I’d loved as a child, and gradually becoming a member of the family.
Sadly, when we met, the attraction wasn’t there. We’ve remained friends, but both of us are still looking for other people.
So my search for a ready‑made family goes on. I have not given up on motherhood, not by a long way, and I’ll continue dating ready‑made dads until the right one comes along.
After all, isn’t the first rule of parenthood never to walk away?
Friends have allowed me to be a part of their family’s lives – but it’s not the same