Heather and the Peanut

Heather is one of my step-daughters. She is called this because of the frequency with which I had to step over her in the middle of the floor. What better place to watch the tube, read Harry Potter, or get to know a boyfriend?

She enjoys throwing people off with little acts of insanity. But it really is just an act. I think. I'm pretty sure, anyway.

As with most of the young women among my ever-more-numerous relations, Heather has always been too cute for her own good. While she was still in high school, she was so constantly beset by the attentions of young men that she had to wear fake wedding rings and take a spare male friend along to repel boarders during her frequent trips to the store. I served in this capacity a couple of times. So did my boy, Hyrum. I even seem to recall dimly that she actually allowed herself to be seen in public with her brother Josh a few times rather than face the hordes of young men who were desperate for her attention.

Now Heather has a new hobby. His name is Peanut, for now, and he's about 14 weeks along, I think. Candid photos taken only yesterday by our agents in Virginia Beach verify that Peanut is in fact a boy and that he has not yet developed the habit of wearing clothes. In fact, anonymous witnesses tell us that he has been seen frolicking around the womb in a state of nature!

Motherhood does strange things to women. All at once, they begin to see themselves as authority figures. Sheryl tells me that Heather's latest edict to me makes me responsible for the selection of the child's first name. This will explain the likelihood of my being seen in coming days with my head stuck in volumes of ancient Germanic or Celtic lore, searching for a title of sufficient grandiosity for this little legume. Wish me luck. Cute she may be, but the wrath of Heather makes Khan look a little sick.