Attack of the Hippo Heads!

Cooper is settling into his personality a little more now, although I must admit that I don't know him as well as I knew Savannah at this age. With Savannah, it felt like I knew her instantly. Very few things about her personality have surprised me to this day. Cooper's a bit more of a mystery. He is developing a little more of a temper -- mainly because he has had sinus congestion for a couple of weeks. He is also battling some Gershon issues and some colic (which always sounded like a vegetable to me) brought on by his formula. (He has forgotten his superior belching skills since coming home.)

When I hold him, there are a few things that really jump out at me. He has these deep eyes that always look like he's plotting some conspiracy or staring deep into your soul, reading the thoughts and impulses even you don't know yet. He is obviously beautiful. And he has a melon roughly the size of a hippo's. Don't get me wrong, I don't think he's freakish or anything. Cooper's just following the hydrocephalic lead of his old man. You know those fitted caps without the little adjusty thing on the back? Can't find one that doesn't look like a yarmulke on me. And sunglasses? Forget about it. Even the biggest ones look like a monocle on my cabeza. And no adult should have a face that is perfectly circular. I guess the upside is Kelli can use a 12" frying pan as a stand-in for me in family photos.

They always say that a large head is an indicator of success. It's an exciting thought for my children. Savannah's a member of the giant melon club, too. If there were a Franklinland theme park, the character costumes based on us would actually have heads smaller than ours. My kids should get something in exchange for a lifetime of stretched-out necks in their shirts and sweaters. The real question is: where's my payoff?

If head size is indicative of success, I should be like the white male Oprah (also a hippo-head.) I should have the money of Bill Gates (I could swallow his little pinhead whole), the fame of Ben Affleck (famous due only to his hat size, because it sure ain't for his acting), and the power of Ted Kennedy -- the undisputed King of Craniums. That thing has its own zoning restrictions.

Why should I suffer through a life of mediocrity while dragging this thing around? Do you know what kind of neck muscles it takes to walk around with a 40-pound medicine ball on your shoulders? I've always wanted to go to New York for Thanksgiving, but I'm afraid a crowd of volunteers with matching Macy's shirts will start clipping cables to my head and pulling me back into the parade. Hollywood is not an option -- "Look Mommy! John Boy Walton got fat!" And forget about me ever getting near Easter Island.

This kind of attic space should be celebrated, not ridiculed. I want my success! It's my birthright just as surely as success in women's golf is the birthright of every attractive lesbian, like a knack for comedy is the birthright of every short, thin Jewish guy and like the presidency is the birthright of everyone named Bush... or so they seem to think.

So for all the melon heads out there, I will achieve my success. I will rise up and snatch it away from those of lesser cranial volume. I will stand up for everyone who, like me, had to get two paper crowns from Burger King. I will stand up for the lowly, the oppressed, for everyone whose promise of large-headed triumph has been denied -- except Patrick Swayze. You had your shot, Road House. I will stand up for the Big Heads. And then I will quickly sit back down, because holding this thing up is exhausting.