Mama Writes: But I Don't Wanna Wear A Superhero Cape

I come from a family of girls. Growing up, I had two sisters, a mother, aunts, girl cousins, and two very powerful matriarchs, one of whom is still alive, and the other who died only two years ago at the ripe old age of 103.

Although I was raised with the firm belief that women can do anything they set their mind to, there was a Little House And The Prairie brand of femininity to my upbringing: I wore cotton smocked dresses, adored my dolls, played fairies and had a curtain of long hair.

I don't think it truly occurred to me that I might have a son, that is until my newborn was placed upon my chest and I realized (with no small amount of shock) that I had grown a tiny penis inside of me. My husband and I were raised on William Wants A Doll (and, to his mother's telling, his favorite piece of clothing when he was five was a purple miniskirt with pink elephants). We've been happy to see our kid fall in love with his baby dolls, or decide he's growing his hair long to look more like his grandmother. The day he rocked the in a pink ballerina costume, we were especially proud. The kid's current obsession is playing fairies, and although my friends with little girls are beginning to watch their daughters sucked into the tyranny of the Disney princess/everything pink/ fairy kingdom, I was happy to buy my little boy a totally plastic Tinkerbell doll, because I figure my days of him asking for such a "girly" toy are numbered.

The Tinkerbell obsession goes hand-in-hand with an interest in Peter Pan, the flying boy who never grows up (although the kid always insists on "playing the role of John"—he claims Peter Pan is "just too much," and I'm prone to agree, since I wind up playing the exhausting part myself—so much flying!).

Lately, I've begun to realize that Peter Pan is our gateway into "boy culture." Pan has (apparently) invited some fellow fliers (or gliders—my husband insists we be technical on this point because Spiderman Does Not Fly) to our nursery window. All of a sudden, Superman and Spiderman and Batman are popping up in daily conversation.

I have nothing against superheroes—I've enjoyed some of the movies, and know a little about each of their alter egos—but the truth is (as I've now revealed to any of you who know anything about comic books) that I really don't understand those caped, masked guys intent on saving the world—their appeal, mythology, or history. I suppose part of my distaste lies in the fact that this is the first time the kid is interested in something I don't know much about (which is all about my own ego- I'll admit it). While we're at it, I'll also admit that I'm prone to distrust anything my kid is "supposed" to like (and I now understand why all those moms of girls have been bemoaning princess culture all this time). But I've started to think there's something more to my resistance.

My husband (he of the miniskirt-loving, Free To Be You And Me-listening young boyhood) gobbled up comic books throughout his adolescence, and is well-informed on all matters having to do with the banality of Peter Parker's suburban Queens childhood, or the deviousness of Lex Luther's ice cave, or the Hobgoblin's insidious bomb-making abilities (yes, I wrote all that down verbatim). Our birthday presents this year for the kid's agemates were superhero capes—while I brainstormed the idea and bought the materials, my husband was the one who sewed them (and while he rocked that sewing machine in a way that would have made Marlo Thomas proud, I suspect he wouldn't have undertaken the project with such aplomb if it involved assembly-lining pillow cases). There is something special about superheroes, something that my husband, and apparently, my son, revere, but I'm not part of that conversation. So maybe—just maybe—the reason I'm having a hard time embracing the strong, fearless men with superpowers is that I'm (shhhhh) a little jealous that all the ins and outs of that saving the world business is knowledge that, of the two of us, only my husband will be able to impart.

It's time to fact facts: there are two men in my family, and I ain't one of 'em. I guess I've been moving towards the realization that I'm in the minority ever since I met my son. But it's only recently that it occured to me that the first time the kid shaves, my husband's going to be the one to teach him. I don't even need to look that far: just the other day, in the bathroom, I failed to remind the kid to tuck that little penis I created, and, in an instant the floor, his knees and the magazine rack were deluged with the yellow stuff. The truth is, it hadn't even occurred to me that one actually needed to *do* such a thorough tuck, because I don't have the equipment.

Up until this point, the kid has, for all intents and purposes, been genderless. It's been easy to think of him as an ever-burgeoning extension of my body. But I'm realizing that "we are one" phase is almost at an end, and, looking in the other direction, I find myself having to think, really for the first time, about the nature of a mother/son relationship. Whereas, as a grown daughter, I comfortably hang out in the bathroom when my mom's taking a shower, I know that my grown son will never do the same for me. Of course, this is the natural course of events, and I'm happy that someday he'll build a healthy distance between his body and mine. But wow, I didn't really consider the fact that that separation—that gender split, inexorable, between him and me—would already be beginning.

Although this may seem like an hysterical jump from superheroes, I can clearly see the connection between the toddler he is today—who waves pretend swords at invisible villains—to the taller-than-me kid he'll be in a few years, who begs to play video games in which really terrible things happen to pixels that look a lot like real people, and maybe, someday, to a man who wants to go to war. He's biologically wired to fight and protect, and the best I can do is give him the resources to use kindness and language as the primary ways to interact with the world. But that doesn't mean I have to love the transformation from gentle boy to tougher man, or fret about the models of masculinity our warrior culture provides for him.

Still, there are moments when I'm reminded we still have a chance to make our own rules, and find a middle ground.

The other day, the kid and I were walking through Trader Joe's. In the produce aisle, he turned and asked, "Who does Spiderman love?"—a question that warmed my heart. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I knew the answer was Mary Jane, but I also knew my answer would only lead to more questions, and I didn't have much information about this Mary Jane, beyond that she has red hair and grew up as Peter Parker's neighbor. I mumbled something resigned about how the kid would have to ask his father when we got home. Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a young man- just out of college, glasses, sweet smile- who asked brightly, "Does he want to know about Spiderman?" When I said yes, the young man's face lit up. He told the kid all about Mary Jane. And when the kid responded, "And who does Superman love?" the young man happily told him all about Lois Lane and the Daily Planet and Clark Kent. Both kids—my own, and someone else's—had eyes that grew wide with wonder.

That night, I recounted the story to my husband. "How cool is that?" I asked. "He was just some guy who just happened to know about Spiderman and wanted to help."

"They're good stories," my husband replied nostalgically. He added, growing a little misty-eyed, "The other day, I was talking about the X-Men and my eyes just welled up. All those people, all around the world, who think there's something wrong with them, but they belong together, they belong somewhere, they make their own family..."

Okay, fine. Maybe superheroes aren't so bad after all.