I’m NOT Batman
Far removed from the terrible tragedy in Colorado, and insensitive media speculation that managed to both diagnose an individual without having met him, and demonize those on the autism spectrum, Batman means something else in our home.
Cubby, like his daddy, has taken a shine to Batman. He likes other superheroes too, and knows all the real names and those of the villains. Spectrummy Daddy even made up a superhero story for Cubby, and his alter-ego, The Neme-Sis (get it?).
A few weeks ago Grandma sent him some Batman nightwear (complete with cape) and a Batman action figure. Spectrummy Daddy couldn’t fit in the pajamas, so Cubby was allowed to keep those. I’m perhaps married to the only diplomat with a Batman toy on his desk. Then again, Spectrummy Daddy showed up to the consulate yesterday in his Batman shoes, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Don’t worry, he doesn’t wear them to his meetings- he has his Batman cufflinks for those.
Because I’m nothing if not an enabler, I taught Cubby to say, “I’m Batman” in the trademark growl. It is obscenely cute. It doesn’t matter if he is decked up like the caped crusader- my blond-haired, blue-eyed little bundle of mischief doesn’t make for the most convincing Batman.
Yesterday morning was a hard one for Cubby. He opened up his bottle of whine before 5am. Finally Spectrummy Daddy had had enough, and deemed Cubby not fit to wear the pajamas he so covets.
“Batman doesn’t whine,” he told Cubby.
So our very own Bruce Wayne lifted off his pajama top, and patting his belly growled at his Daddy:
“I’m NOT Batman.”
That was the first time I actually believed he could be The Dark Knight.
Today he told Daddy that he could his Robin. I’m not sure where Pudding and I fit into his scenario, but at least I know that when life in our own version of Gotham City gets a bit too much for us, we can always escape to Wayne Manor with a certain billionaire philanthropist. Hey, my boys aren’t the only ones who can fantasize!