This morning my oldest, George, arrived as school with something missing. He was wearing a plain pair of jeans, a shirt with a cheetah on it, underwear, socks, shoes.
That's it. No "S" on his chest. No spiderwebs. No cape.
It was hard for him. He looked down at his feet. He was suddenly shy when his friends approached. Poor little guy. His mom barely got him to accept that at least he could chase his friends "as fast as a cheetah!" With some doubt still registering on his face, he took off running, long cheetah strides and all.
What happened? Why no "S"?
Well, yesterday my wife and I tried to create an incentive to get George to make the final step towards complete toilet training. We said that if he used the toilet consistently (even at naptime -- which was the problem) for a whole day, then he could get a new, 3-year-old-sized Superman costume (he has been fitting into the same worn, now hopelessly flooded Superman costume since he turned 2). The catch was: no superhero costumes, not even the old ones, until he showed us he was ready.
No orange "fish-scale" shirts. No Batman utility belts. No Flash costumes with the yellow gloves. And no Superman.
For most boys, this probably wouldn't be a problem. But George (like me when I was his age -- genetic? socialized?) insists on being a superhero... not occasionally, mind you, but every day. This has been going on for a year.
What my wife realized today when she dropped him off at his preschool, is that the superhero costume acts as a kind of buffer for him against the worries and pressures of his day. When caught offguard or confused by a teacher's request, or bumped by another child, he can always assume the hands-on-waist imposing stance of Superman, or the ironic, lifted eyebrow of Batman, or the speedy, exaggerated run of the Flash. Without the costumes, he is just a 3-year-old boy in a huge world.
This got me thinking about the superhero costumes that we all wear, even in adulthood. My last post was on Gore and Clarence Thomas and their different ideas of honor -- based on integrity or reputation. What are these but superhero poses, embodying different idealizations of their actual selves, with slightly different enumerations of powers?
What is my "superhero costume" as I write this post? Am I a Defender of the Left, whose power is to use my X-ray vision to expose hypocrisy on the Right? Or am I a Concerned Parent whose power is asking questions... questions that act as a heat-ray to melt the facade of daily life and reveal our shared understandings behind? I guess I would hope to have a variety of costumes, from which I can choose on any given day (and sometimes change them minute by minute -- just like George does!).
What about you? What "superhero costumes" do you wear at work, at home, with your children?
Of course we all know that our children aren't fooled by our costumes any more than we're fooled by theirs. By about 12 years (or earlier?), I expect, they will know with certainty that I'm just Dad, a man who happens to have lived longer than they have and who loves them very much.
I would just hope that, when that day comes, they will have the same reaction I do when the superhero shirt squeezes over George's head and settles on his shoulders: I know he may not actually be Superman, but when he hugs me I know that his powers are far better than knowing how to fly.
And at least his mom and I can check kryptonite off the list of things to worry about.
By the way, here's the current favorite youtube video in our house. You'll soon see why.
Hmmm, I've found that parenting is leading me away from superhero-ing, moving closer and closer to the essence of Clark Kent. I am surprised by the 50s model dad that is now emergent, suddenly I need a pipe and black-frame square glasses. This comes across in some unforeseen ways; I'm surprised to find how naturally stern I can be, how consistently pedagogic I am, how ready I am to mete out grim punishment. I think I'm doing right, and my boy loves me as much as I love him. But sometimes I realize I must consciously culture the nutty parts of my parenting or risk being a no-fun dad. So, superhero? No. In a good light, Clark Kent with a car seat, in a bad light, Walter Mitty with a disciplinarian streak.
Posted by: Kevin | October 16, 2007 at 10:46 AM