Fro sho

Now I know that Kellen is my son, I distinctly remember the 30 hours I spent trying to squeeze that head out of me. It was no small feat.  After he finally popped, I remember looking over and seeing him, all of us thinking the same thing, but not saying it.  That is, except for his dad, who just looked at me after 30 hours of labor and whispered..."what's wrong with his head?"    At that time it looked like someone had planted a mushroom in his eyebrows.  His dad later said he was sure we would have to home-school him.  Fortunately, these things have a way of correcting themselves.  Either that or it worked when I tried to secretly round it out every time the nurse brought him in to breastfeed.  They assumed he was having trouble latching on, but really I was too busy trying to squish his head into shape by repeating these kind of circular strokes on his little cap.  I didn't dare move it to see if I was making progress.  By the time we got home, two things were obvious. His head was finally round, and there was a  mix-up at the hospital between me and the leprechaun that must have been giving birth nearby.  I didn't go to trade him back though because with my overbite and poor vision, genetically I probably had the better "wee little baby."  Besides, how would my true offspring ever be able to make delicious purple horseshoes? He was a keeper.

 I didn't start to worry until he was about six months old.  That's when he started to lose his hair.  It took months to regrow...and eventually curl.  That's when the reality set in. Kellen was not a leprechaun baby at all.  No.  With those puffy red locks and receding hairline, there was only one possibility...he was most likely  the offspring of Billy Crystal and Ronald McDonald. I should have known.  We are in the bible belt.  They would never let a man and a creepy-clown-man raise a son together.  He's in good hands guys.  Your secret is safe with me.