I have five Peanuts. I used to call my nephews after the Chinese fashion of Number One Nephew and so on through the numbers to Five. Sometimes I just refer to them by number, but lately I've taken to calling them Peanut. Peanuts - the allergenic kind - are cute, nestled in their waffle-textured shells, wrapped in brittle brown papers. Peanuts - the Schultz kind - are also cute, and those are the Peanuts that inspired my Peanut appellations.
I love all the Peanuts (and the big nuts who hatched them). I've thoroughly enjoyed getting to know them as individual little people over the past year I've been living with them. The original Peanut, though, is Five. At first he was Piglet, but it didn't really stick for too long. I thought he looked like a peanut when he was swaddled into a tight little bundle for the night, but now he resembles Charlie Brown, the bald-headed kid who could never kick the football. (Which should never reflect badly on him, poor boy: it was all Lucy's fault)
Five has the physique of a Peanuts character: short little legs, slightly longer body, and a head so big and so round it's a wonder he stands upright. He can't touch the top of his head, which fact I've used against him sometimes, when I tease him by putting his hair in a ponytail, or putting a building block on his head. He is so blond --not just Dutch-boy-blond, but so blond that when I took him for a walk last week, I was blinded by his head glowing in the sun. Though his tufts of hair are long enough I can pull them back into a stubby tail, they are so fair that he often appears to be bald.
So, all the brothers became Peanuts as well, though they have sadly outgrown the Charlie Brown look themselves. Before we know it they will be full grown nuts. I hope it doesn't happen too quickly.