On the couch
[Mask]
“My Daddy’s a superhero,” Henry retorts with the confidence that only a three year old can muster.
“Nuh uh,” the little boy he’s playing with responds.
“Is too,” Henry answers, belligerence creeping into his voice.
“Daddies can’t be superheroes. They’re just dad’s.”
“Not mine. He saves people. He saved Aunt Claire and he helped Uncle Nathan save the whole world.” That confidence is back mixed with pride. Clearly, Henry is the only one with a superhero daddy and the other boy’s father is sadly lacking.
“That’s dumb.” There’s a pause while the little boy fills up a dump truck with sand. It’s obvious from the expression on his face, he’s considering Henry’s confession. “Does he have a costume?”
Henry thinks about that for a second and then shakes his head. “Doesn’t need one.”
“Superheroes have to have costumes and secret identities.” The word ‘identities’ comes out mangled but comprehensible.
“Nuh uh. Not my daddy. He’s the bestest superhero so he don’t need costumes and stupid other names.”
Henry looks over to his mom for confirmation but she’s sitting at the park bench reading a magazine.
“He’s not a superhero without a costume,” the little boy decides as he dumps the sand out of his truck and starts filling it up again.
“Is so,” Henry responds. Just in time to save the day and stop a fight, Peter walks into the park still wearing his paramedic uniform. He waves at Henry and walks over to Sasha, bending to kiss her lightly. Henry points over at him. “See, that’s my Daddy. He is a superhero.”
“He does got a costume. Duh,” the little boy rolls his eyes. “Should have said so. My Mommy says firefighters and policemens are all superheroes too. He’s still gots to get a secret identity.”
“Does not,” Henry says. “Gots to go. Bye.” He scoots out of the sandbox, action figure clutched in one hand as he runs toward Sasha and Peter.
“Daddy! Can we gets you a secret identity?”
“My Daddy’s a superhero,” Henry retorts with the confidence that only a three year old can muster.
“Nuh uh,” the little boy he’s playing with responds.
“Is too,” Henry answers, belligerence creeping into his voice.
“Daddies can’t be superheroes. They’re just dad’s.”
“Not mine. He saves people. He saved Aunt Claire and he helped Uncle Nathan save the whole world.” That confidence is back mixed with pride. Clearly, Henry is the only one with a superhero daddy and the other boy’s father is sadly lacking.
“That’s dumb.” There’s a pause while the little boy fills up a dump truck with sand. It’s obvious from the expression on his face, he’s considering Henry’s confession. “Does he have a costume?”
Henry thinks about that for a second and then shakes his head. “Doesn’t need one.”
“Superheroes have to have costumes and secret identities.” The word ‘identities’ comes out mangled but comprehensible.
“Nuh uh. Not my daddy. He’s the bestest superhero so he don’t need costumes and stupid other names.”
Henry looks over to his mom for confirmation but she’s sitting at the park bench reading a magazine.
“He’s not a superhero without a costume,” the little boy decides as he dumps the sand out of his truck and starts filling it up again.
“Is so,” Henry responds. Just in time to save the day and stop a fight, Peter walks into the park still wearing his paramedic uniform. He waves at Henry and walks over to Sasha, bending to kiss her lightly. Henry points over at him. “See, that’s my Daddy. He is a superhero.”
“He does got a costume. Duh,” the little boy rolls his eyes. “Should have said so. My Mommy says firefighters and policemens are all superheroes too. He’s still gots to get a secret identity.”
“Does not,” Henry says. “Gots to go. Bye.” He scoots out of the sandbox, action figure clutched in one hand as he runs toward Sasha and Peter.
“Daddy! Can we gets you a secret identity?”