Super Reeve

One of the many advantages of having Superman as my son is that he walks around singing his own theme song, which then gets stuck in my head during my morning run, which gives me the fleeting impression that I am, in fact, flying. (When, in actual fact, I am dragging my sleep-deprived over-forty very human body through this soupy New York summer.)

An even greater advantage is the peace of mind that the world is safer because Reeve is in it. The other day he reported that his pre-school friend Miri got stuck climbing the slide during recess, but he climbed right up, got her unstuck, and "saved her." She was, by all reports, totally amazed.

And then there is the helpful added benefit that food, such as honey cereal but even green vegetables, provides essential energy for super powers and therefore gets eaten not only without protest but with actual gusto.

As a superhero with a human-like appearance but super-human powers, my little Superman finds his own identity perplexing. He announces with certainty today that he is "actually an Alien who looks like a person but a good alien not a bad alien," while tomorrow it turns out he is "actually a Human but from another planet so with extra power." He grapples with the nature of his obligation to Humanity. If he's just a visitor, why does he need to save everyone? If he is one of us, what makes him so different? And if his mommy and daddy came to Earth, which he explains is impossible because they blew up on their planet Krypton, but just "IF" they could, would they be supermans too? Which leads us to a discussion of the extra density of Superman's bodily tissues on our planet, because of our specific distance from the sun as compared to Krypton's distance from its sun and the gravitational coefficient therein something something -- which leads us to the question, is it his body's strength that really makes him Super or something else in his nature? Because he could do anything he wants with all that added power. Why does he try to help people? And, importantly, "Mommy, is Superman ever scared?"

Reeve has ever been an early riser. The (early) morning ritual now has a new first step before eating/dressing/pooping/going to school: Stop at the rubber band drawer, find a rubber band, and fasten Cape. Recently my little Superman won't leave home without it. He wears it to the Farmers' Market, Music Together, the playground, school. One never knows when superpowers will be needed. Unlike his mentor, he does not attempt to conceal his superpowers; rather he quite delights when strangers declare with awe, "Look! There goes Superman!" Such recognition tends to inject a little extra fuel into his boosters -- he flies off, one arm forward, the other bent back (standard flying form), cape flapping in the wind wake he leaves behind.

He has recently grown interested in Superman's alter-ego, however, asking repeatedly, "What's Superman's name again when he's not Superman?" We practice saying "Clark Kent" again and again. It's a hard one for him -- he's wrestling with articulating the letter "R" generally, even in his own name but especially embedded Rs. But maybe there's more to it -- maybe he's reluctant to learn the name, the clumsy shadow side of his super-self. Clark Kent is not another part of the Story; he seems to represent the Real. The tightrope between the two seems to be what my Super Reeve is trying to walk. When he senses that others are "buying" his Super persona "too much," he quickly assures them, "I'm not really Superman. It's just a costume." Occasionally he meets with an audience unwilling to accept the reality check, insisting that he really is - or at least maybe really is - Super. Reeve seems to find this response both perplexing and great.

And then, of course, there is the real Superman, as in the man in the movie, none other than Christopher REEVE. It is not lost on our Superman that his own name flashes across the screen in the opening credits, a message from Space Itself.

At least until he strips down to his undies and cape to become... Captain Underpants! TRA-LA-LA! Or strips further to become... Captain NO Underpants!

The other day a parent with expertise in child development put it all in a box that would fit neatly in a diagnostic grid: "He is at the age for it." Implication: The Cape will fall to the bottom of the toy chest. He'll get over it. Meanwhile, recently in our backyard, Night turned to Day, Clear skies to Rain as Paramount Pictures filmed the new Spiderman. And out of the blue, a book arrived Special Delivery for my husband from his mother - The Seven Spiritual Laws of Superheroes. When he called her to ask why she sent it, she said simply, "Because you're my Super Hero."

And you, Super Reeve, will always be mine.