Given my view of the looming catastrophe due to climate change, I feel uneasy about my three children. Born in 1975, 1992, and 1995 to two different mothers, they face somewhat different risks, but they all face serious risks because they may live through a good part of this fraught century. If the shit hits the fan in fifteen to twenty years, as James Lovelock has prophesied, they will feel the brunt of what is to come while they are in their prime. And I feel responsible for their fate. Had I been more astute years ago, I would not have had any children, let alone as many as three of them. My recent book about climate change and what is to be done about it offers an early warning to them, too, but that is hardly a sufficient consolation for me. I should have known better. How do the three of them feel about being born into this predicament, though? I have sent my book to my two sons already, but I am not in touch with my daughter, who is the youngest of the three. So far, I have not heard a word from either of my sons about my vision of the imminent future. Chances are that both of them think of it as off the wall, anyhow. In other words, they are not likely to be complaining about my faulty judgment regarding their birth. And I may be gone by the time the calamity gets going in earnest and their curses begin flying my way. Ahead of time, I feel that I am, as it were, chickening out.