Vera called over her shoulder. “Hey, kids? Settle down. It’s picnic time. Peter? You and Meg come sit in the clouds with me.”

Peter appeared from the hallway at a dead run and flung himself across the comforters with Meg right behind him, mimicking his actions. The entire house, or at least the portions I could see, had been child-proofed. Most of the surfaces were bare, and all the electric sockets were sealed with plastic devices designed to prevent children from sticking forks in the slots, thereby electrocuting themselves. There were no bookshelves with massive volumes perilously close to the edge, no knickknacks within reach of tiny hands. Lamps were wall- or ceiling-mounted, with no dangling cords. Lower cabinets were locked by means of hardware that required the swiping of a magnetic key. There were spring-loaded latches as well. Retractable gates were drawn across the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. The children had free run of the hallway. Period.

What struck me was the uncanny resemblance between Vera and her small brood. Something in her facial structure had been translated intact. They were as beautiful as small foxes, duplicates of her and variations of one another. No physical imprint from Neil at all.

Peter and Meg arranged themselves cross-legged on the floor. Bonnie set down an egg cup and a small spoon in front of each along with their plates, fruits and vegetables neatly segregated. The kids were clearly hungry and went to work with enthusiasm. Vera fed Abigail by hand, placing bites in her upturned mouth, which was open like a baby bird’s.

I said, “I don’t know how you do this.”

She smiled. “Shall I tell you the secret? You don’t do anything else. That’s why most grandparents enjoy the hell out of kids. They’re not always thinking ahead to something more important. Try to read or talk on the phone or undertake any task that requires focus and this bunch will be all over you. Sit with ’em like I do and they can’t wait to get away from you.

“The other secret is coordinated nap and bedtimes. I see parents whose kids are up running around until eleven o’clock at night. I have a friend who claims her three-year-old doesn’t ‘feel’ like going to bed before midnight. I’m looking at her like she has two heads. The kid doesn’t feel like it? My kids are in bed by eight o’clock, no ifs, ands, or buts. Kids need at least eight hours of shut-eye. Otherwise they’re whiny and out of sorts. Me too, for that matter.”

“You’re going to end up with five kids under the age of five?”

“Oh. I guess so,” she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t mind adding one more just to round out the number to an even six. Neil isn’t keen on the idea, but he may change his mind. Have a seat. You want a soft-boiled egg?”

“Maybe later,” I said. “You look wonderful.”