Despite an enormous amount of evidence to the contrary, I’ve strongly suspected, ever since I was a little boy, that I’m some sort of super hero. I can’t fly. I’m not super strong. I can’t burn through metal with my laser beam eyes. I find villainy frightening and heights give me the willies. And yet, deep down, I know I’m super somehow. So naturally it follows that my children would be super too.

I never realised what my super hero stance looked like until me son started copying me. He stands, chest out, fists on his hips, legs heroically apart, one eyebrow raised, and declares, “I’m Superman!”

This makes me incredibly happy. You can imagine how happy I was when he then went on to call me “Super-daddy.”

“I’m Super-daddy?” I ask, nearly in tears.

“Yes.” He says, gazing into the distance. “I’m Superman. You are Super-daddy.” We stand together, legs apart, fists on hips, single eyebrows raised, gazing off into the distance heroically.

“Who’s your sister?” I ask.

“She’s Batman.” He tells me. A somewhat darker, more ambivalent hero. That fits. They’re definitely on course for some sort of show-down.

The next day, as we stand together in our super hero poses, my son drops a bomb shell. “You’re Super-daddy.” He says. I nod, eyebrow raised. “And I’m Iron man.”

“Iron man?” I ask. How the heck does he know about Iron man?

“Yes. I am Iron man.” He then proceeds to zoosh me with his Iron man palm-zooshers. “Zoooooosh!” He yells.

“Why are you zooshing me?”

“Because I am Iron man.” He says by way of explanation. “Zoooosh!”

“Will you stop zooshing me, please?” I ask later. He zooshes me again. After several more hours of zooshing I beg him to stop. He stands in his zooshing pose, his zooshing palms turned towards me menacingly.

“Iron man needs to watch TV.” He whispers darkly.

In a chilling, ironic twist, my super-son reveals himself to be… a super-villain.