At the age of ten, if you would ask me who my favorite super-hero was, my answer would be, “My dad.” I grew up reading DC Comic books and Marvel Comic books with my older brother. I grew up with The Hulk on television. I am currently eagerly waiting for the The Avengers movie to come out in or around 2011. I am also obsessed with Superman, keeping up with the Smallville episodes, and still upset over Christopher Reeve’s death (and his wife’s). All this, and the true super-hero in my life was my dad. I would swear that he was faster than Flash, stronger than Superman, and even bigger than The Hulk.

            My dad has always been a very important part of my life. Growing up, I could take or leave my mother. Or so I had thought at the time. My dad and I have always had this connection. Something between us has always been a bit special. Of course, I’m the first daughter. That has been to my advantage to my two younger sisters. I’m more the outdoorsy type than them, a bit more rough around the edges, so to speak. I’ve been most likely to kick the straight-A student’s ass in school. I’ve been voted least likely to wear a dress just for the heck of it. My dad has always been a super-hero to me, has always been there for me, in spite of my troubles. Today, I realize he’s not exactly bullet-proof. I know that he’s not faster than Flash. And it’s not his old age kicking in. I realize that he’s human. That he has made mistakes along the way.

Being a single mom, my children don’t have a choice but to call me their Mom and their Dad. In May, it’s Mother’s Day, in June, it’s Father’s Day, and in July, it’s my birthday. Three months in a row of great stuff from my kids. I’ve asked my kids who their favorite super-hero is. Depending upon which movie they’ve seen, their answers will differ. “Spiderman! Iron Man!” and now, it’s “The Hulk”. I’ve asked my oldest about these super-hero’s and why they are so awesome. She answers, “Well, mom, they’re pretty awesome because they’re fun. But they’re just not as awesome as you.”

Wow. Was she trying to say, in a way, that I’m her super-hero? Does she really look at me as some woman coming in to save the day? Does she really not know my faults? This brings tears to my eyes. A part of me wants to tell her, and myself, no I’m not strong. I’m weak. I’m far from perfect. I’ve done some very bad things in the past. I still make many mistakes. And yet, the other part realizes what a good job I do with her and her little sister. If one of them tells me of the monster in the toilet, I still get the toilet wand and “swish” it away, even if I’m rolling my eyes. If one of them has an accident, due to their incontinence, I may sigh, complain inside my head, but still clean them up and throw away the evidence. I am there for my children.