Whenever I date a guy, I think, 'Is this the man I want my

“Whenever I date a guy, I think, ‘Is this the man I want my children to spend their weekends with?’” Thus spoke Rita Rudner, the comedienne whose humor hides the blade of deep understanding. With wit both tender and piercing, she turns laughter into wisdom. Beneath her jest lies not cynicism, but clarity—the wisdom of one who has seen the cost of choosing love without foresight. Her words echo a truth that has haunted the human heart since the dawn of family and fidelity: that love is not only passion, but responsibility, not only companionship, but the shaping of generations to come.

Rudner’s quote, born of humor, arises from the realities of modern relationships, where the bonds of marriage and family often dissolve, and the children of those unions become the silent inheritors of adult mistakes. When she asks, “Is this the man I want my children to spend their weekends with?” she is not simply jesting about divorce; she is unveiling the sacred foresight that every person should bring into love—the vision to see beyond the moment’s excitement into the long unfolding of consequence. For love that ignores the future becomes sorrow that cannot be undone.

In the ancient world, such wisdom was prized above beauty or charm. The philosopher Socrates once said, “By all means, marry: if you get a good wife, you’ll be happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.” Though spoken in jest, his meaning was clear: the choice of partner shapes not only one’s present, but one’s soul. Rudner’s reflection, uttered centuries later, carries the same eternal echo. She reminds us that a lover is not merely someone to share our joy, but someone who will one day shape the world our children inherit—for the measure of love is not how it begins, but how it endures when life demands sacrifice.

Consider the story of Abigail Adams, wife of the second President of the United States, John Adams. She was not merely a wife but a partner in vision, intellect, and faith. While her husband was away forging a nation, she raised their children alone, teaching them virtue, resilience, and purpose. One of them, John Quincy Adams, would one day become President himself. Abigail’s foresight in choosing a man not only of ambition, but of integrity, bore fruit for generations. Had she sought only the thrill of romance, history itself might have been deprived of their legacy. So too does Rudner’s jest conceal a lesson of discernment—that in choosing a partner, one chooses the destiny of their children.

Yet, her words also whisper of the fragility of modern love. In a world where relationships often crumble under the weight of ego and haste, Rudner’s reflection urges the listener to pause, to think, to measure not only how love feels, but what it will build or destroy. The laughter she evokes carries an ache of truth: that many enter love dreaming of forever, yet fail to ask whether the person beside them could bear the burdens that forever demands. Love, she reminds us, is not sustained by the fire of attraction alone, but by the daily faithfulness of two who see beyond themselves.

And yet, her humor redeems the heaviness. In her gentle irony, she invites us not to despair over love’s risks, but to approach it with wisdom and laughter intertwined. For laughter is not mockery—it is acceptance. It is the acknowledgment that human love will always be imperfect, yet still worth striving for. To ask her question, “Is this the man I want my children to spend their weekends with?” is to bring levity into discernment—to mix seriousness with grace, and realism with hope.

Therefore, my children of the heart, take this teaching to yourselves: choose love with vision, not merely with feeling. Do not seek the one who dazzles, but the one who endures; not the one who flatters, but the one who will stay through storms. Ask not only whether this person excites your heart, but whether they will nourish the hearts of those who come after you. Let laughter guide you, but let wisdom guard you. For a choice made in passion may shape a year, but a choice made in wisdom may shape a century.

In the end, Rita Rudner’s words are both playful and profound—a mirror held up to the modern heart. She teaches that humor can be a vessel for truth, and that love, if it is to be lasting, must be chosen not with closed eyes, but with open vision. So laugh, yes—but also look deeply. For in that laughter may lie the still, steady voice of wisdom, whispering: Love well, for others will live in the world your love creates.