“He’s starting to smell really bad,” Rob said. “Here, take a whiff.”

“I don’t need to take a whiff,” I said, holding out my hands to keep Rob from shoving Timmy’s diapered bottom under my nose. “I can tell from here that he needs a new diaper.”

“A diaper?” Rob repeated. He managed to give the impression that this was a new vocabulary word whose meaning he didn’t quite comprehend.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before realizing that the calming effect of deep breathing wasn’t nearly as effective downwind of a poopy diaper. I wasn’t too fond of the diaper routine myself, and would really rather not do it right now, when we were about to cut the chocolate cake Dad had brought over. But someone had to do it.

“There’s a whole box of them up in his room,” Michael said. I opened my eyes to see that he had stood up and, wineglass in hand, was leading the way toward the stairs. “I’ll show you how to do it so you’ll know for next time.”

Rob blinked a couple of times, then obediently followed Michael upstairs.

“I knew there was a reason I married him,” I murmured as I listened to the diaper-changing lesson in progress upstairs and nibbled my cake.

I pulled out Timmy’s instruction manual and checked my watch. It was seven-thirty. His normal bedtime was supposed to be eight. And surely, given the amount of exercise he’d had today, he’d be ready to sleep on time, wouldn’t he? So since we already had him upstairs, I decided to go up and suggest that someone—me, if necessary—read him a few stories until he was ready to drop off to sleep.

Half an hour later, I’d read Timmy a couple of the Dr. Seuss books Karen had left as part of his baggage and Michael had told him several charming bedtime stories involving llamas or big noisy trucks. I was just tucking him in with Kiki clutched in one hand and Blanky in the other and whispering “night-night” when Rob strolled in.

“Hey,” he said, in ordinary tone of voice that sounded like a bellow compared to the soothing, hushed tones I’d been using. “Grandad’s on TV. Come on; it starts in five minutes.”

“TV?” Timmy’s head snapped up.

“Dammit, it’s his bedtime,” I said, waving the instruction manual. “I nearly had him settled down.”

“Watch TV,” Timmy said, popping up like a prairie dog peering out of its hole.

Dr. Blake strode in.

“This is educational,” he said. “Come on, Timmy—you want to see the turtles, don’t you?”

“Turrels! Turrels!” Timmy repeated. “Want see turrels!”

Rob picked Timmy up and hoisted him to the ground. Timmy sprinted for the door, collided with Dr. Blake’s legs, and ricocheted out into the hall.

“Timmy, be careful,” I called after him.

Blake tottered, and both Rob and I leaped to make sure he didn’t fall over. Rob missed, but I caught Blake’s arm and found myself supporting his whole weight for a few seconds.