By now, I’ve gotten used to the reactions.
The lingering stares. The startled glances. The sideways whispers.
Some folks beam like it’s charming. Others look downright alarmed—like I’m living proof of everything they fear about parenthood.
But no one ever asks.
They just assume I’m some frazzled dad trying to herd a pint-sized soccer team.
The reality?
Only two of them are actually mine.
The rest? That started with one simple favor.
A friend of a friend had an unexpected work emergency—no sitter, no options. I stepped in without thinking much of it. Then it happened again. And again. Her sister called. Then someone from her church.
Next thing I knew, I was that guy.
“Ask Joel,” they’d say. “He’s good with kids.”
And sure—I am. But that’s not why I kept saying yes.
The truth is, I was lonely.
I didn’t set out to become the neighborhood’s go-to babysitter. At first, it was just the occasional weekend. A few hours here and there while parents took a breather. But it didn’t take long for things to grow. My house—meant for just me and my two kids—slowly morphed into something like a community playroom.
I kept telling myself it was just temporary. Just helping out.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t just about helping.
After my wife and I split, I did my best to hold it together—for the kids, mostly. But when the house got quiet at night, after bedtime routines and goodnight kisses, I felt it. That ache. That heavy, hollow silence. I wasn’t just alone—I was lonely.
I missed connection.
I missed noise.
I missed belonging.
So when people started calling, I kept saying yes. The kids filled the gaps in ways I didn’t expect. Their stories, their drawings, their tiny voices asking for snacks or help with shoes—it gave me purpose. Noise. Company. Life.
Now, when I walk through the grocery store or across the park with six kids orbiting around me, it doesn’t feel strange anymore. It feels like rhythm. Like routine. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
And when someone finally works up the nerve to ask,
“Are they all yours?”
I just smile and say,
“Not by blood. But today? Yeah. They’re mine.”