As a single dad with three kids — two sons, a teenage daughter, and more shared inside jokes than the pages of a novel — I’d figured dating was just something I’d circle back to later, after the whirlwind of parenting slowed down. But, as anyone who’s raised kids can tell you, “later” is an elusive concept. Life felt full, albeit chaotic, between weekend soccer games, late-night homework sessions, and impromptu dance parties that somehow always ended with someone in a headlock.

My daughter, Eliza, was the first to bring it up.

“Dad, do you ever think about, you know, dating?” she asked over a bowl of cereal one morning, her tone so casual that it caught me off guard. She flicked a glance at her brothers — Adam, 10, and Luke, 7 — both deep in a debate over which superhero would win in a fight.

I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Why? Thinking about setting me up?”

She grinned. “Maybe. I just think it would be good for you. And for us, you know?”

The idea stayed with me, as stubborn as peanut butter on the kitchen counter. I wasn’t against the idea of dating; I was against the logistics of it. Dating as a solo dad was like trying to complete a puzzle with half the pieces missing. How do you explain the importance of bedtime routines and Friday movie nights to someone who isn’t already part of the picture? More importantly, how do you know who’s safe to introduce into your children’s lives?

A few weeks later, I worked up the nerve to go on my first date. The kids knew — it was impossible to hide, especially with Eliza’s not-so-subtle winks. I left with a bit of swagger in my step, but honestly, I felt like I was sneaking out of the house instead of going on a normal date. We met at a local café, and while she was lovely, the conversation drifted quickly to what was so different about me from the last time I was dating: my kids.

“So, you have three kids?” she asked, smiling as she swirled her coffee.

“Yeah, they’re the best,” I replied, pulling out my phone and swiping to a picture of the three of them at our last camping trip. I started to tell her about Eliza’s knack for whipping up breakfast burritos over a campfire, about Adam’s obsession with comic books, and Luke’s laugh that could shatter glass. As I talked, her smile tightened, and I could feel the date evaporating. She hadn’t come to meet a family; she’d come to meet a guy.

That’s when I realized that dating for me wasn’t going to look like it did for other people. My family was in every room I’d walk into — and if someone couldn’t see that as a bonus, they probably weren’t meant for us.

But that didn’t stop me from trying. Some dates were awkward; others were surprisingly fun, even with the “so… you have three kids” hurdle. Eventually, I met Sarah, a teacher with a daughter of her own. She laughed when I told her about the headlock dance parties, and one night, after our third or fourth date, she asked if I had any advice for managing a daughter’s teenage years. It felt like someone had opened a window and let in fresh air.

Still, bringing someone new into my kids’ world was a big step. I told the kids about Sarah slowly, and with every mention, I could see them gauging my words, wondering what this meant for us. I waited months before bringing her over for a casual family dinner, and my nerves buzzed like a live wire. I realized that in so many ways, they were vetting her, too. Eliza, in particular, watched Sarah like a hawk, her questions sly but pointed, as if she was the real detective on the scene. But Sarah laughed, answered, and even asked Eliza a few questions back.

One night, when Sarah and her daughter had joined us for dinner, I found myself watching the kids around the table — my two sons were deep into a new comic debate with Sarah’s daughter, and Eliza was leaning toward Sarah, listening to a story from her teaching days. The noise felt like a song I hadn’t known I missed. It was messy and beautiful in a way I could never have planned.

Dating as a solo dad was never going to be conventional. But then again, parenting rarely is.