Superhero Parents

The other day I caught my three-year-old son playing with a few of his toys.  It was one of the moments that you live for as a dad.  In one hand, he had a Spiderman action figure, as sleek and muscular as a plastic toy could be, and in the other hand was a slightly pudgy stuffed bear.  The toys were engaged in an epic battle, as only a three-year-old can imagine, most likely spiced with the best digital effects his little mind could muster. 

I started to walk away, intending to leave him to his game, when I heard him say “dad.”  I stopped, realizing that the fight between Spiderman and the teddy bear involved his old man.  I puffed out my chest a little, very proud to have been part of my son’s imagination in such a macho way—and apparently I was a super-hero in my kid’s mind.

I watched carefully to see if my character was winning.  My son banged his characters together; they flew through the air, defying gravity and logic, much like Neo and Agent Smith in the Matrix.  The teddy bear dodged several precarious obstacles, with the Spiderman-Dad character chasing close behind.  Suddenly the bear swung around and clocked the Spiderman action figure, sending the little guy flying through the air and skittering under the bed.  The bear was triumphant.  I was devastated with this turn of events, and I couldn’t believe that my son had so aptly removed me from battle.

My son went on playing with the victorious stuffed bear, plopping it on a small wooden train, to ride off in the sunset, no doubt.  I just couldn’t help myself.  I went into the room and sat down beside my boy.

            “Hey bud.” I said.

            “Hi daddy.” He said, pushing the little bear around atop the train.

            I pointed under the bed and asked, “So, uh, what happened to your Spiderman guy?”

            My son beamed, holding up his bear.  “My daddy beat him up.”

            I studied the bear, and realized that my son was right on the money.  I certainly had more in common with that stuffed bear, a little soft around the midsection, than I did with the muscular action figure.

            “Daddy always wins.” He said, in his most serious tone, “ ’cause he’s a suprrho.”

Which is Liam-speak for superhero. 

And with that, the conversation was over and my son was back in his blissful never-never land with his toys.

I got to my feet, thinking about the diet I would start the next morning (and lose that soft-midsection), and about how my son viewed me as a suprrho.  Now I certainly don’t think of myself as a hero.  For the most part, I get up in the morning, go to work, come home, play with the kids for a while, go to sleep, rinse and repeat.  I think, for the most part, I’m a lot like other parents out there with young kids.

It was interesting to me, that for all the normalcy that my life exudes, somehow my son got it into his mind that I’m a hero—and not just any hero—but one who can kick Spiderman’s butt, pudge and all.

It’s been something that I’ve been thinking about since then: how we come up with our heroes, and why.  I have a few people that I could name as my hero: my wife being one (who has the supernatural ability to keep the house clean, feed three kids, be constantly learning, stay in amazing shape, and still be happy about it all at the end of the day.)  Batman is another hero.  Danny Boyle seems like a pretty cool guy, and has that creative touch that I really admire.

But when it comes down to it, my dad has got to be at the top of the list.  The guy is tireless—and has always seemed to be that way.  When I was growing up, he was always the first one out of bed, and the last to turn out the lights.  He worked constantly, but always had time to play with one of his seven kids.  That’s right.  I said seven kids—and he did it.  When I was younger, my brothers and I used to call him Superman—and rightfully so.  If anyone could be faster than a speeding bullet, it was my dad.  If anyone could save the day, it was him.  And right now, he’s not just my hero—but is one of those heroes that we all rely on.  Right now, he’s actively serving our country in the Army—doing what he’s always done—tirelessly pushing forward and helping those he can.  When he comes back from active duty, he’ll continue doing just that.  And for that reason, my old man is my hero and could kick Spiderman’s butt any day of the week.

--Derrick Hibbard, author of The Double Stroller Hand Grenade and This Side of Eden