While Elder considered me the captive audience for his wisdom, our younger son saw me as the damsel in need of rescuing.
When he was four-years-old, Younger caught me in the tiny hallway of the apartment where we lived, holding up his hands and demanding, “Who do I look like?”
So, I inspected his new red gloves that were decorated with spider webs and the name of a certain superhero and then I hazarded a guess. “Spiderman?”
“You’re right!” he declared. “What’s your name?”
“Mommy,” I answered.
“And what’s your problem?” he asked, preparing for battle.
Not having a ready answer, I borrowed from Ray Stevens. “Somebody grabbed me, and he’s tying me up, and he’s throwing me on the railroad tracks and, AAAAAAAH, here comes the train! HERE COMES THE TRAIN!”
Immediately, Spiderman a.k.a. Younger shifted into his superhero stance, thrusting hands forward, fingers folded into his palms, shooting webs from his wrists. And he saved me. Just in time for me to finish cleaning the toilet. I cannot describe the relief.
And so it continued. Soon, the entire apartment was littered with webbed bad guys that I had to vacuum and dust around.
Then Younger followed me to the front closet. “What’s your problem?”
“Oh, Younger,” I said wearily, trying to shove various cleaning products back into my bucket. “I don’t know.”
But Younger had not yet finished with his rescuing. So, he glanced over his shoulder then leaned furtively towards me to whisper, “Is it the man sitting on the sofa?”
Biting back a grin, I too glanced over his shoulder at my husband who was sitting on the sofa. “I gotta tell you, Spiderman, he’s one of my biggest problems.”
So, Spiderman webbed him.
Oh, yeah, definitely my hero.