The collision of what normalty is suppose to look like hits hardest at divorced dating with kids. We decided to meet for ice cream, casually. I tried not to be nervous but noticed my voice was several pitches higher and I felt hyper sensitive to everything my four and seven year old said. Let alone thought or felt. I scanned the 'new family guy' immediately, trying to detect any glimpse of fear or withdraw. He was a friend and someone I was comfortable around but the moment it became a date, that included meeting my children, the frequency went way up. I imagine it had something to do with the blatant, 'meet my life' experience that it is. I mean in traditional dating it is enough work to show up dressed well and with dysfunctional family issues tucked away. This was so out there, so exposed. As we ordered ice creams, my daughter, obviously sensing my weakness, traded hers in twice, only to throw it away on the way out.

We walked down the street and I avoided eye contact with Mr. Big as my little one swung between our hands, akward and unatural. It could have been anyone else, a friend, a stranger even, and it wouldnt have felt that way.

I walked directly into the bathroom at starbucks, and cried. Not knowing what to expect or how to feel made everything seem wrong. I assumed it was a sign this was the wrong guy. Then I felt hopeless about my destiny. Then guilty for my childrens lives that I ruined.

I did what we have all learned to do, wiped my eyes, straightened my dress, and laid on the bathroom floor until the employees called the police to have me removed. (In my mind at least) Returning to the all american dream I smile politely as he hands me coffee that will send me spiraling for sure and observe my son hitting the starbucks sign with his head to entertain the diners. Ordinarily, a father would undoubtedly step in and say with that special father voice "stop doing that and lets go" that works like magic.

Oops, no fathers here. I notice.

My young handsome date has no children and looks slightly perplexed as I morph into a 70 year old hag-wrestler and peel my son off the glass door.

Somehow, we make it back to the vehicles, and say goodbye, at least there is no pressure as my oldest turns to him and ask's "Are you going to be my new dad?"

Obviously, in the car I explain to my offspring that they will always still have there dad, and that me and there father love them desperately. And that will never change.

Comparing has to go out the window. This experience is brand new and will create itself. Or not. I found that I cannot expect to feel like a family with someone else in an instant. I have to remain open and vulnerable to the growing pains that are inevitable here. I have to leave room to re-write or re-adjust as necessary. For a while afterward, I simply did not bring my children out with us at all. I dated him alone, trying to find the fundamentals that will ultimately dictate weither or not he's a good match for me and my family. And us for him.

Slowly, we have had new experiences that felt like our own.