The Day Superman Saved Me

For five weeks, I’ve been living with Superman. Fantastic as it sounds, I have to admit it’s not much different than living with someone normal. He eats and sleeps like the rest of us, fusses when upset. There is, of course, the continual display of amazing feats of strength, the aftermath that I always have to clean up (note: Superman isn’t the tidiest fellow). Throwing couch pillows like boulders across the living room, ripping used construction paper and other flotsam in a single tear, drinking from a sippy cup at unprecedented speeds.

Superman is a toddler. Don’t let this fool you into thinking that his being Superman is any less real.

We don’t question if, but when, Superman will appear each day, if he will need help tying his cape. When he wears his outfit, he is Superman. Otherwise, he is Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, though he is unsure what a reporter even is. The reality has permeated all of us: I am not Mom, I am Lois, and I am beautiful and need saving. Dad is not Dad: he is suspect and a bad guy, often the victim of an impromptu punch from a walnut-sized fist. They are not carrots: they are super carrots. It is not bathtime: it is super bathtime. The hero tears through the house at a pace that, honestly, is no faster than an adult casually crossing the room. Blond hair unnaturally twisted with pomade into a curl over his forehead. Arms pumping. He glances over his shoulder to ensure that his cape is raised on the tuft of wind. The pretense is cute; we remember our own days of becoming something more than we are.

Then I lock my keys in the house. Supie and I are already running late. He’s in his car seat with his fruitsnacks and a drink. I’m momentarily stunned at what to do. Break a window? No, surely too dramatic. Call my husband at work? Too long to wait. Climb through the front window left open for evening air? No way I could hoist myself over the bushes, much less fit through so small a slot.

It hits me. I hurry to the car, waving my arms wildly. “Superman! I need help from Superman! You have to save the day.” I am serious. He can tell.

In a flash—box drink pushed aside, fruit snacks thrown down, spewed over the car floor—he is ready for action. Unbuckled, he runs as fast as he can to the house. I pull off the screen and he flies in, runs around the living room for effect, and unlocks the house door. This isn’t our much-played scenario where Superman saves Lois from the encroaching plastic dinosaur with scary red eyes. This is real. He has used the powers that only he possesses. He has saved the day.

Where is the line between pretend and real? Who cares? Superman is laying for himself the foundation of any dreamer: the belief, or at least the hope, that we possess a capacity for greatness and for . . . mattering, perhaps even so beyond natural ability. That we find something more possible than nondescript reality. That, in all the planning and dreaming, when the real chance for action comes along, we are ready.