By now, I’m totally used to the double-takes.
The drawn-out gazes. The surprised stares. The hushed whispers from folks passing by.
Some people beam like it’s the sweetest thing ever. Others look completely bewildered—as if I’m a living cautionary tale about the chaos of family life.
But no one ever actually asks.
They just figure I’m some frazzled dad attempting to manage a mini-mob.
The real scoop?
Only a couple of them are actually mine.
The rest? That all began with one simple favor.
A buddy’s cousin had a sudden work crisis—no childcare, zero options. I stepped in without really thinking twice. Then it happened again. And then another time. Her sibling called. Then someone from her neighborhood book club.
Before I knew it, I was that person.
“Just ask Rhys,” they’d chime. “He’s a natural with kids.”
And yeah—I am. But that’s not the sole reason I kept agreeing.
The truth is, I was feeling pretty isolated.
I didn’t set out to become the local go-to guardian. At first, it was just the occasional weekend. A few hours here and there while parents caught a break. But it wasn’t long before things snowballed. My place—designed for just me and my two little ones—slowly transformed into something like a bustling mini-rec center.
I kept telling myself it was just temporary. Just lending a hand.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t only about helping.
After my partner and I went our separate ways, I did my best to keep it together—mostly for the children. But when the house grew silent at night, after story time and goodnight hugs, I felt it. That deep ache. That heavy, echoing quiet. I wasn’t just by myself—I was profoundly lonely.
I yearned for connection.
I missed feeling like I belonged.
So when the calls started coming in, I just kept saying yes. The kids filled those empty spaces in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Their wild tales, their crayon masterpieces, their tiny voices asking for juice or help with a shoelace—it gave me a sense of purpose. Noise. Company. Life.
Now, when I stroll through the marketplace or across the open field with half a dozen small humans buzzing around me, it doesn’t feel strange anymore. It feels like a rhythm. Like a comforting routine. Like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
And when someone finally gathers the courage to inquire,
“Are they all yours?”
I just smile warmly and say,
“Not by birth. But today? Absolutely. They’re my crew.”
