When my little girl was a little girl, she wanted the same, simple, uncluttered and achievable future every little girl desires: to be a superhero ninja princess rock star spy. While most of that fell along the wayside as she blew through her days, she did accomplish one of her goals.
Briefly, for a day, for an afternoon, my daughter was the greatest superhero the world has ever known.
Being a young lady of the post-information-age-age, my daughter, Sarah, knew she had to have some accessories if she was to be a proper super hero. First on the list was a cape. Next was a logo. Third was a catchy name.
Being an old man of the pre-information-post-information-transition-age, I knew this was kind of awesome. At 3, she already knew the importance of marketing. But first, a cape.
A pillowcase quickly was dispatched. I tied it around her neck and she launched herself into the stratosphere, flying around the living room and kitchen in a low orbit, making shushing noises as she skimmed clouds and looked down on creation with a knowing, wise, battle-hardened gaze.
Next was the logo. It had to go right in the middle of the cape, which she assumed was valuable and approached me tacitly with an idea that she might keep the cape, to which I agreed. She grabbed some markers, dropped down in front of the TV and went to work.
Her cousin already had begun her own superhero career as Bingo the Saver Dog. That she is non-canine never was an issue. Never even occurred to me. Of course she's Bingo the Saver Dog. She drew a dog wearing a cape on her cape. Voilà, a superhero is born.
But Sarah was more pragmatic, and decided since she was the superhero, she should use her own name. But SARAH is not terribly catchy. It needed punch. It needed pizazz. Obviously, SUPER SARAH. She tried it out. Flew dejectedly around the foyer. It didn't work.
She landed in the living room, leaped onto the couch, copped a stance and cried out her new name: ABSOLUTELY SUPER SARAH.
Now this was it. This was a name with legs. There could be only one! She was absolute!
She dropped down into a hunker before the TV and knocked out her logo, a wonderfully minimal ligature graphic of the initials of her superheroic moniker: A-bsolutely S-uper S-arah, in 5-inch Sharpie caps, flipped her cape around her shoulders and rocketed out the front door, down the sidewalk, past all of our elderly, retired schoolteacher neighbors who couldn't manage poor gerund usage, much less the acronym my absolutely super daughter was sporting on her rippling cape.
For a day, for an afternoon, my girl was a superhero who flew around our 'hood with A.S.S. written on her back.
Christopher lives in Chicago with his wife and kids and can also be found at deathbychildren.com.
See more of Christopher's stories here.