And I mean enormous. Enormous as in having at least four stories, several wings, servants’ quarters, a grumpy French chef capable of feats of mouth-watering artistry, a rose garden enclosed by a high stone wall, an herb garden enclosed by an even higher stone wall, a large vegetable garden attended by a duet of elderly gardeners (indentured for life), a tennis court, indoor swimming pool, a mile-long driveway, about a hundred acres of meadows, forest, hills, several dozen serfs, and a stream of the non-seasonal variety.
That kind of enormous.
If I lived in such a house, then the children could be located in a distant wing (with its own, different zip code), separated from my study by several floors. Under the watchful eye of their governess (and a resident EMT), they could then carry on with their typical peaceful activities (blowing things up, refurbishing furniture with axes, catching the mailman in a tiger trap and then sacrificing him to one of their charming childhood gods [see: Winnie-the-Pooh, the Jack-in-the-box, Thomas the Tank Engine, etc], etc) without disturbing me.
A man can only dream.