Dear Mister Bush:
When my daughter comes home from kindergarten with a piece of paper that says:
When I grow up, I want to be...a mommy, a doctor, and a scuba diver.
I want you to imagine that she is your granddaughter of the notsodistant future (you should be so lucky), and practice telling her this:
"I'm sorry honey, and I prolly shudda tole ya sooner, but you prolly shouldn't be having any children that you intend to live a nice long life. Cross 'mommy' off the list, doll."
ps - you make me gag. the kind where I throw up just a little tiny bit in my mouth.