My daughter is getting so big, so fast. They always told me this was going to happen. How fast time flies by when you have a little one, and how they seemingly grow before your eyes.
I didn’t believe them, not really, until I started getting on lots of airplanes for work. Flying all across the country to do the human connection thing that is so vital to the business I’m in, and what has helped create so much professional satisfaction in the last year. I can see some of the goals I’ve had finally getting closer to real, and I’m learning so much about setting newer, better, different goals.
But every time I walk out the door to go further those aspirations – ones that I hope will form a secure foundation for my family for years to come – I say so long to a very small person who doesn’t quite understand what I’m up to.
To her, in her tiny little three-foot world, I am everything. I am omnipotent, capable of delivering the finest breakfast waffles, healing bonked heads, finding lost small purple bunnies amongst the terrible sofa cushions, and telling the best stories. I am the Solver of All Things, the better-maker when we’re sick and the comfort when there are scary noises outside. She relies on me.
So too, do the people with whom I work, sometimes. The folks among my friends and colleagues who seem to think I don’t sleep (I do), that I can tackle any challenge they hand me, that I can keep up an endless pace with a smile on my face, conquer the world, make a difference, befriend everyone, move mountains.
But Abby doesn’t care about that. She doesn’t care about Twitter. She doesn’t care about my stupid blog. She doesn’t care if I ever churn out another webinar or whitepaper or stand on another stage to give a silly speech. She’d much prefer I stay on the ground. In our living room or the backyard. Her vision of superhero status is rooted in different things. Bigger things. Maybe better things.
If I’m going to choose what kind of a superhero to be, I’m going to be her kind. The kind whose powers are wrapped up in cookie baking and drawing of endless chalkboards full of happy face flowers. The kind who can make time slow down, just a little bit, to hold fast to new discoveries and sentences full of laughter and nonsense and amazement at the world she’s discovering in toddler-sized chunks.
I don’t need to be the superhero that’s internet famous. I don’t need to be the popular superhero, or the funny one, or even the smart one. I don’t need to be the superhero of social media, or business, or my circle of friends.
The only kind of superhero I care to be is a quiet one, a steady one, a human and fallible one. One seen through blue eyes, giggles, and fingers sticky with pancake syrup and fruit snacks. I don’t need to save or conquer the world. I just need to be the guidepost, the best kind of simple superhero I know how to be, to give the world, instead, to her.
