Wednesday, 3 February 2010

What am I, kryptonite?

This isn’t a timely, and self-indulgent post about how another man has declared his public love for me, granting me ‘hero’ status in the process.


That would be ridiculous.

However, I do believe even I could do a better Spiderman than Tobey ‘the-lights-are-on’ Maguire, and it seems those savvy movie makers have only taken three films to agree.

But this is something else.


I have long discovered, as I suspect many other parents have, that I am blessed with special powers akin to the fake minerals that leave Superman not so super.

Whereas kryptonite works on Clark Kent in his superhero form, my internal power seems to work on anyone with a very similar genetic code to myself.

Far from being fine, my son’s motor skills seem to be virtually disabled whenever I am within 20 feet of him. To the point that he appears to become arthritic whenever I am in touching distance.

Like yesterday, Max went to one of his friends for tea, and as his friend’s mother was telling me how wonderful he had been, including being the only one to carry his own school bag there, he stood perfectly still, nullified, waiting for me to put his shoes on.

It is a gift.

One I would happily list on Ebay as unwanted if I knew how to dispatch it.

So, last night, I switched to sarcastic jibe mode, a protocol absolutely certain to rid my son of lazy altogether.

“Son, is my superpower really being able to stop you from functioning as a human being?”

“What, I am even working on your vocal chords now?”

Yeah, my approach is soon to appear in a book; “Supernanny? She has nothing on me.”

It is a jovial thing, I know the boy can do all these things, shoes, coats, clothes and carry stuff. But there are times when I simply find it quicker, and I am much less likely to kill myself, than I am if I subject myself to the pain of watching him writhe through the process of putting. Both. Shoes. On. Himself.

And I like knowing that, generally, he is very adept in the company of others. Including being a ‘mother hen’ type at school.

Most of my frustration is fake, to make my boy laugh, which luckily, is very infectious.