There once was a mother.
She had herself a set of twin girls.
Five years later... she had herself a son.
Four years later ... she had a little daughter.
She had herself ... 4 more children ... than she ever saw herself having and yet ... she became a mother.
She spent many, many, many years - raising all these kids.
Sixteen years - to be exact.
Raising all these kids.
One day ... the boy child, sat upon the mother's bed.
"Why do you do all that typing? Writing stories and such? Why do you do that?" the boy child asked of his very devoted mother.
The mother looked at the boy. "I like to write. I like to come up with stories," she said, and then smiled most sweetly into her little boy's face.
The boy child jumped down off of the mother's bed, turned to walk out of her room and then looked back and said, most casually, "It would be really good if you were a real writer," he took another step. "That way you would have something to do."
And ... then he was gone.
On the upside ... If ... having been a mother for 16 years is representative of "having nothing to do" - then ... this particular mother would absolutely not be capable of taking on a profession - such as that of a honest to goodness real writer. Nope - she could never handle it!