A young boy's sexual identity is such a fluid, malleable, squishy thing.

Last night: Didn't want to read a bedtime story, wanted to look at pictures of Gwen Stefani in Vogue instead.

This morning: Woke up and wanted to watch Caddy Shack naked.

Ten minutes ago: After I wiped his butt, but before jumped so much that he barfed on the bed, he told me -- told me -- that he was going to marry me.

Dear Jack;

I'm sorry, but the most very special love between our son and I can no longer be denied. Once we all started sleeping in the same bed, I mean -- well, you've seen him naked, you've pinched those little biscuits! Can you blame me for wanting him all to myself?

I know what you're thinking. When he's thirty-two I'll be seventy. And what about those unattractive adolescent years? What can I say. I think we can make it work!

You and I had some great times. Let's not spoil it with crude references to dead Greek psychos.

Love always,
Mrs. Kennedy

P.S. My lawyer will let you know where to send our Power Ranger Black Raptor Cycle With Chomping Action.

P.P.S. Jackson is prepared to fight you with Star Wars Light Sabers. He'll let you have the blue one.