The sea of vehicles at the junction of I-575 and the southbound lane of I-75 is backed up like the sea of glazed donuts on the Krispy Kreme conveyer express. The donuts move faster and are not trying to butt their way into another donut’s lane. There are no horns and no heated hand gestures between donuts who are complete strangers. They just move along quietly and in peace.

I wish I had a donut right now.

I am headed home after a three-day stay with my two grandkids who live in Holly Springs. The parents, who are significantly related to me, are gone on a trip with other adults. They are on some island having fun, sun, and adult beverages prepared by a bartender who lives beneath a grass thatched roof on a beach.

I am stuck in traffic.

My assignment has been simple. Show up on Sunday afternoon. Make sure the kids eat, bathe, and get to school for a few days. See them off on the bus Wednesday morning. The other grandparents will take over that evening. The parents promise to be home Friday night.

It’s an easy gig, really. The dog is staying elsewhere following surgery for eating too many socks. The kids are old enough to take care of their own basic hygiene. They don’t always know how to remove all the soap from their hair, but that’s not a major concern to me. Soap is good. All I really have to do is cook a few meals and manage the chaos.

Easy-peasy.

I arrive at the sports complex on Sunday. The air is cool. The sun is warm. I am surrounded by acres of dark green grass and a throng of kids swooping around in flag football attire as far as the eye can see. They remind me of the starlings in spring, hundreds of them in the sky darting back and forth in choreographed dance. I’m trying to find one 9-year-old boy.

He’s on the field all the way to the back. Frank and Cathy, the other grandparents, are there. Their job was to get the kids to the field. Mine is to get them home. We greet each other briefly. A handshake and a hug. Almost immediately they are gathering up their stuff to make it to some other appointment.

And like that, I am alone. Grandpa-duty has begun.

Dorothy is curled up in a blanket drawing with her colored pencils. She draws constantly. She even got a ribbon in the school art contest a few months ago. She hands me a picture of a flower with “I Love You Grandpa” at the top.

Everett makes a quick wave in my direction. Nothing too overt. Cool flag football players are not allowed to fraternize with the spectators. His team wins 28-14.

I’ve played this role a number of times over the years. House and kid sitting while the parents are gone. When we got to the house after the game I noticed a significant change this year. Used to, the three of us would sit down to a snack, play a game, or cuddle on the couch to watch a movie.

Not today. We were in the house long enough to toss down a few jackets, cleats, and bags. Within about 20 seconds they asked me, “Can we go play with our friends?”

I am halfway prepared for this because my daughter, in her 8 page well organized instructional manual for the week, put a note to the effect: They might ask to play with friends down the street, and that’s fine.

They disappeared and the house was quiet. I had a couple of hours to kill.

Suppers have not changed. The instructional manual included the usual list of things in the fridge and pantry that the kids would eat. They are a family always on the go. Not much time for cooking five course meals in their schedules. Sunday night was air fried chicken fingers with Kraft Mac & Cheese.

Last year I dressed up the Mac & Cheese. It looked so bland just right out of the box. But the kids wouldn’t eat it.

“This is not the way Mama does it.”

So, this year, I stuck to the instructions on the box. Except for the butter. I melted the butter in the microwave before adding it to the mix. This concerned Dorothy. I was breaking protocol again. But the vote at the end of supper was that I make the best Mac & Cheese they had ever eaten.

I had roast beef, carrots, potatoes, and fried okra that I brought with me from Marion’s house. A grandpa will survive.

They were in bed by 9pm. I spent the next 30 minutes fooling around with the coffee pot. This is a national brand pot preferred by all urban parents with the K-cup and the pot on the same machine. They use the K-cups. I like my coffee out of the pot.

One problem. I can’t figure out how to set the timer. My alarm is set for 5:30am and I want coffee ready when I stroll into the kitchen. Kids up at 6:00 am to get ready for the bus. I need a few minutes alone with my coffee before the day begins. Every morning I stood there and waited on my coffee to brew.

Text to my daughter who is being served coffee while watching the surf roll in: In next year’s manual, I need an instructional video on how to set the timer on the coffee pot, please. I think this is only fair.

I counted 32 kids getting on the bus in the early dawn. Of the twenty or so parents at the bus stop with me, 18 of them were dads, which struck me as interesting. I kind of liked it. The male figures in these kids’ lives present for this daily routine. Plus one old guy in a pickup truck among all the SUVs.

My two full days were the same. Early to the bus. Pick them up at the after school program around 4:30pm. They run off to play. Supper. Bath and bedtime.

I’m tucking them in on Tuesday evening. Dorothy is sleeping on the floor next to her brother’s bed. She doesn’t want to be alone in her room because she misses her mommy and daddy. I don’t tell her to be a big girl. I just let her curl up on her blanket and pillow.

“Will we see you in the morning?” they ask.

“I’ll be here.”

“Will you pick us up from school tomorrow?”

“No. I’ll be leaving after I get you on the bus in the morning. Nana and Pop-pop will pick you up.”

“We miss you already.”

I close the bedroom door with a little mist in my eyes. I’m always torn about my presence or lack of it because I live so far away, when actually I only live a couple hours away.

A grandpa wants to “be there” for all his grandkids. I’ll do better I pray. Lord knows, I love my grandpa-duties.

Suddenly, sitting in clogged traffic doesn’t seem so bad.

I’m Grandpa. I’ve got this.