This weekend in Tahoe, I tried several times to amuse my friend’s 8-month year old daughter. No dice. She looked at me with a perpetual expression of guarded disdain--"Are you kidding me?  You are not a true adult. I know from adults, and they are either my mother or father. You are not worth the diapers I poop in.”

It made me appreciate my youngest niece that much more.  At roughly the same age, Emerson is one of the happiest babies I’ve ever seen. Her face is always stretching like a balloon into a wide grin, and it doesn’t take much to elicit it: cascading down her father’s chest like a waterfall, having her feet waved back and forth, being elevated high enough that she has a perfect view of her surroundings.

Things are, in short, going pretty well with Em and her recently acquired life.  But then my father reminded me of this blog post that I had completely forgotten, from 2005--years before she was born:

“I just found out that Teri Hatcher’s daughter is named ‘Emerson.’ I know it’s a rule that you can’t have a hit TV show or movie unless you have horrible names for your kids, but this is going too far.  Can this young prodigy explain the philosophical underpinnings of transcendentalism?  Did she supply Harvard with a graduating address called ‘The American Scholar’?  No? Then she’s not allowed to have the name.  Instead of complaining every time the paparazzi sticks a camera in her face, I’d expect her to explain the zoom lens as a modern-day version of the transparent eyeball. I’ll look for your analysis in Us magazine, Emmy.”

This doesn’t look too good for my future relationship with my second niece.  But let me state--clearly and unequivocally--that nothing is out of bounds when it comes to making fun of Teri Hatcher. She is dumb.

Second, although it looks as though I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth like an In-N-Out burger, I’d like to point out that following: