Last week we've had this come up:
T: Mom, did my dad die or something? I mean not my donor-dad or my opa (grandpa) but my real dad--did he die?
Me: You mean the man that should (or could) be living here with us like in other families?
T: Yes, that guy.
Me: No, T. He didn't die. I just haven't found him yet. But I'm trying and one day, I'll find just the right one for us.
T: Good, because I really want a dad. I really, really do.
Ouch. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
He's asked this question twice in the last week. I'm not sure why it's suddenly so important unless he's noticed someone at school with their dad or a kid has spoken of stuff they do with their dad.
I'm trying T. I'll take a risk and date and try to find a great guy that also wants to be a dad. Man, that's tough to do. But I'll do it because you deserve it. And so do I.
It's giving me gas pains already. That's my personal reaction to stress--a bloated belly. Just what you want when you're trying to hold it in to create a better silhouette for a would-be suitor. Excuse my while I run to the bathroom....