Timothy has decided he's a superhero. In case you wonder how I know, he runs through the house with his Bear blanket around his neck and announces loudly that he's a superhero. It's a dead give-away. Since he isn't the first son I've had that's gone through the superhero phase, it didn't surprise me much. He has a bit of a different take on a superhero's duties, though. In his version, he chases the cats through the house, roaring loudly at them. They don't care much for it, and with seven of them inside, it tends to lead to dangerous stampedes.
Today I sat him down and had a talk with him (because I haven't yet learned, after 8 years as a parent, not to try to reason with preschoolers). "Timothy, superheros don't scare," I told him. "They help!" He took it well. Or so I thought. Then, a few minutes later, I heard a stampede coming down the hall. Sure enough, he was behind a herd of cats, roaring for all he was worth.
"Timothy, what are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm being a superhero!" he replied.
"But superheros don't scare, they help," I reminded.
Timothy thought for a brief moment. Then he answered, "I'm helping the kitties run away!"
One of these days I'm going to give up on matching wits with my children. Obviously, they are smarter than I am.