A couple bedtimes ago, CB Daughter and I snuggled down to read “Royal Rodent Rescue.” Part of DC's popular (in our household) Super-Pets series, the book features Supergirl’s Super Cat Streaky facing off against evil Rozz, Catwoman’s feline sidekick.
The reading started strong, with daughter pointing out the Green Lantern logo on the back cover and correctly and excitedly identifying Gorilla Grodd, furry Flash nemesis.
I became engrossed in the animal adventures, wherein Streaky rescues Prince Zouli the hamster. About a quarter of the way through, I realized my daughter was neither engrossed nor snuggling, but instead was attempting to insert herself into the slim space between her bunk bed and the wall.
Images of children dying after hiding in trunks and closets and chests whirled through my head as I pulled daughter out and chided her, hysterically using the words “you could die.”
In retrospect, I might have been engaging in fear-induced hyperbole.
Daughter immediately grew hysterical herself, sobbing that she wouldn’t die. Dying, as she recently explained to a friend, is the act of leaving home, going back home, and leaving again. Kind of like college.
She moaned pitifully while I, remorseful, patted her and attempted to re-snuggle. We returned to Streaky and Rozz, but the magic was dead. Streaky saved Prince Zouli, but my daughter could have cared less.
Super Mom I ain’t.