I am sitting at my airline gate. I have been waiting here since the Peloponnesian Wars. I am people-watching because there is nothing else to do while I wait for my plane.

The main person I am watching is a guy in the seating area. He is maybe mid-80s. With him are six children. He appears to be the sole adult in their company. There are no other grownups with him.

These are all little kids, too. Really little. Kindergarteners, I’d guess. The kids wear oversized backpacks and sneakers. And they have been blessed with energy.

The kids call this man “Bill.” Not Granddaddy, Uncle, or anything like that. Just Bill. They are shouting his name over and again. Bill this. Bill that.

I’m wondering what Bill’s story is. And more importantly, I’m wondering whether Bill has called for reinforcements.

The kids are getting more rambunctious with each minute. They are constantly running around, falling down, roughhousing, and asking Bill important questions at the tops of their voices.

“Bill!” the kids are saying. “Do people ever die in bathtubs?” “Bill! Why are my underpants white?” “Bill! How do mommies get pregnant?”

God bless Bill.

Bill finally gets the kids to stop running around by telling them to sit down and start coloring in their little coloring books. I can tell that Bill is a patient man. I never hear him raise his voice. He never once loses his smile. Lesser men would have already had a cardiac infarction.

Soon, the kids are coloring, and all is well. Mostly. Because while it is true that the kids ARE behaving—technically— they are also making a lot of noise by laughing loudly.

Other people glare at the laughing kids. Grumpy adults nearby give the kids looks of parental disapproval, just to let the kids know laughter is not appreciated. This is an airport, dangit. You’re not supposed to laugh in airports. You’re supposed to make sounds of weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Then it happens.

“Bill!” one of the kids shouts. It’s a little girl. “I have to pee!”

“Can you hold it?” says Bill.

She shakes her head to indicate that her particular urethral system is not capable of such superhuman feats.

Bill closes his eyes momentarily and draws in a deep breath. He looks tired.

“Okay,” says Bill. “Everybody get your stuff.”

And so, Bill tells all six kids to gather their belongings. They all start walking down the long corridor to the bathroom like a troop of Cub Scouts.

The kids, weighted with backpacks, follow Bill through the airport. They all arrive at the women’s restroom. And Bill tells everyone to stick together.

“Do you need your big sister to come help you?” Bill asks the girl with the loaded bladder.

“No,” the girl says. “I can go by myself.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to end up soaking wet.”

“I won’t.”

Bill gives her the go ahead.

And thus, Bill and Company are waiting outside the bathrooms, en masse. A bunch of kids with backpacks. And one older man. Everyone in the airport can hear the sound of a little girl’s voice, singing in the bathroom while she performs her necessaries.

On my way through the airport, I pass Bill and his miniature team, all waiting in the corridor.

“You certainly have your hands full,” I say to him in passing.

He smiles. “If you ever get a chance to have great-grandkids,” he says. “Do it.”