School day. Tuesday.

I’m in a parking spot. The rain is running down my windshield in a thousand water droplets. The sky is still dark. I’ve got the heater on to knock off the morning chill. Headlights and taillights glow all around me reflecting off the water-soaked glass and making every shape outside a blur.

Today is day two of grandpa duty in Holly Springs, Georgia. There are two little urchins in my backseat yawning. They are related by blood, and I have been assigned as their primary caregiver for a couple of days while the owners are out in California tasting the bold and crisp flavors of the Nappa Valley.

This is the bus stop.

Some have questioned my competency. A few have wondered if I’ve still got it. And I admit it. It’s been a minute since I’ve had a 7-year-old and a 5-year-old to myself. Check ears. Inspect teeth. Supervise proper socks and pants. Cook food.

I’m a little rusty, sure. I’m also working in a strange environment. I’d be better off if I had the kids at my house. The downside would be the 125-mile ride to the bus stop. So, I am here.

I’ve visited this house many times. I know my way around each room. I have a sense of how to navigate my way to the bathroom and garage and back porch and supper table.

But being here alone and on my own is different than visiting for a few hours. For example, if I wanted to change the temperature of the room, I’d be lost. I could open a window, I suppose. But I have no idea where the thermostat is located. I forgot to ask. I didn’t think to ask. It’s probably tied to their phone anyway, and I wouldn’t even know how to operate it even if I could find it.

Then there are the light switches. I never had to think before about where the light switches are. It’s just never been my responsibility to turn on the lights. Yesterday, I groped the kitchen walls and made guttural sounds as I bumped into things at 5:30am. I thought about waiting on the sun or perhaps looking for a candle to light.

Now that I’ve been looking for switches and trying to figure out what they are connected to, I am astounded at how many switches there are. Around nearly every corner there are banks of switch plates. Two. Three. Sometimes four switches. I’ve flipped them all and some seem to have no apparent purpose.

In a stay-at-home visit like this, the kitchen is of primary importance. It is the heartbeat of the house. I have to get breakfast, pack school lunches, provide snacks, and prepare the evening meal. My daughter gave me a brief tour of the pantry and fridge before she left. She did me a huge favor by leaving specific instructions and putting school snacks in pre-labeled Ziplock baggies.

“E – Tuesday”

“D – Tuesday”

All I have to do is pick up the right bag and get it in the right lunch box. E for Everett, and D for Dorothy.

But in spite of all the preparations, some details were not covered. I have opened 52 drawers looking for a butter knife to make toast in the morning. I needed a mixing bowl for pancakes. 17 cabinets later, I found one. Then I needed the griddle. I wondered if they own a griddle. I looked in the below counter cabinets. The pantry. The oven drawer. I went through every upper cabinet. Twice. Hall closet. Under the bed.

I was about to give up when going back through the undercounter cabinets I realized that if I got down lower, there’s a shelf in the back that you can’t see if you only bend and look inside. You have to bend way down. The griddle was on the shelf in the first place I looked.

By the time Wednesday afternoon rolls around and I head home, I’ll just be getting used to this place.

My first day at the bus stop, a lot of people in this neighborhood walked. Kids milled around outside. Dogs on leashes. Adults chatting in small friendship circles solving the world’s problems.

Today the rain has us all stuffed inside our vehicles. Lots of SUVs. I’m the only truck. I’m guessing I’m the only grandpa at the stop, too.

Everett calls from the backseat. “Grandpa.”

“Yes sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“You just called me by my name. Grandpa.”

I’m sipping on coffee. The sound of rain pitters against the truck roof. Everett continues.

“What’s this?”

I turn to look and he’s pointing at his nose. “That’s your nose.”

I’m sensing a game. You never know.

“Okay. What do I have in my hands?”

I look again and he is holding his hands out front of himself cupped, like the Allstate guy.

“I can’t see.” So, he shows me. “I guess nothing.”

He smiles like the cat that caught the mouse, and he delivers the punch line.

“Grandpa nose nothing.” He’s proud of himself. “I did that to Daddy. Daddy nose nothing.”

I am living with a comedian.

The big yellow bus pulls up to the stop. Parents are unfolding umbrellas and herding kids to the door. It’s not a downpour. Just a light rain. The kind you can walk in for a while before you get really wet. A mother stands off to the side beneath a limp umbrella to watch the line that has formed. She doesn’t move until she sees her little girl disappear up the steps into the bus.

I’m wondering what my daughter or son-in-law would do. What approach would they take? I stayed in my truck and told my two to not to forget their backpacks. They piled out the same door.

“Love y’all. Have a great day.”

“Bye Grandpa.”

They didn’t want to wear their jackets and I didn’t make them. There they go around the front of the bus. They completely disappear from my site. I guess they got on. I imagine they got a little wet. I think I see their little heads walking down the aisle through the window. I am comfortable with my coffee and my style.

My daughter asked me about filling this gig months ago. She wanted me to spend time with her kids, but she also wanted to give me plenty of time to think about it. She wanted me to be sure I was comfortable with the whole concept of being on my own with Everett and Dorothy.

“They can be a handful sometimes,” she said.

It’s not that she doubted my ability. I did give significant assistance to the raising of my own three. It’s just that this would be my first run at this alone. If Nana was in the picture, there would have been no doubt.

My only regret is that I haven’t done this more often. Distance is an issue, but that’s only an excuse.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll put a note in each of their lunch boxes. My last morning.

“I love you. Grandpa.”

If only I can find paper and a pen.