Let's make one thing clear; I am not, nor have I ever been a particularly avid history buff, or comic book grazer. So when my wife gave birth to Bruce Banner and Napoleon Bonaparte I had no idea what I was in for, or how much I was going to have to catch up on to make everything okay.
I love my kids. Deeply. Dearly. I do. Even the fact that they can be so easily charicaturized (yes, that's a word, now shut-up) as two anti-heroes does not defeat my deep and dear love for these two boys.
Bruce Banner was first.
I love that in pop-culture descriptors "mild mannered" always seems to accompany these deeply broken individuals who become super-heroes struggling to maintain moral integrity while wrestling with great power. And this defines my 3 year-old. But where's my SHEILD manual for dealing with this catastrophe.
I often wonder, if they could pull off a number of seasons of Muppet Babies, why not Avenger-Babies? Something that I could have gained some insight from. Seriously, other than superman, I can't think of a single hero who's back-story about who raised him, and how it was done from diapers through adolescence was inspiring, accurate, or intelligent.
Like Bruce Banner, my son was born with a genetic defect that becomes magnified later in life. Though in his case it would seem this came from his father, my son received his "malfunction" from his mother. The layperson might see these people for what they appear to be: beautiful, caring, charming, inspiring, thoughtful and empathetic human beings. People are apt to like them. Love them even. Because, really, they are. But underneath lurks a green monster, and something, or someone let the monster run free in my son.
It starts with a furrow in the brow. You see it coming but in your naivety you pass it off as just a harmless flurry of intense thought, and you wonder why his gaze has fixed itself on you. Then, slightly off put by the fact that this boy who typically vibrates, and rambles playfully has suddenly stopped and fixed two blue eyes directly on you, you realize that those furrowed brows are hiding an increasingly disturbing emotional build-up. For the more observant you'll see it start in the fingers, as they curl into tight little fists. Then the muscles in the upper-arms and chest will tense up. You won't notice it at first, but suddenly you will become aware of a low guttural growl that seems to emanate from the floor and walls, and if you're not mistaken you can actually see them flex in an out in time with the deep breathing happening in the tiny frame before you. A neck vein starts to pulse, and the smallest hint of green appears around the fringes of his lips and ears. Not possible you say to yourself, no child can turn himself green. This low growl gets louder as those typically large and pouty lips draw back into a teeth-baring grimace and suddenly you see a monster before you where once a beautiful toddler was.
And then the yell. Hands are down, he's bent at the waist just enough to jutt out his jaw and lean forward. And with the ferocity of fireworks in a match factory your hair is blown back by the sheer force of pure-anger that erupts from this small frame which seems to have grown thirty-sizes. Your only defense at this point is love. You must pray that all the love you can muster from deep within your soul will suddenly rise to the surface and like the Care-bear Countdown, calm the monster and return the boy.
I wish I was exaggerating.
There are more times in a week when I "hear" the worlds "HULK SMASH!" coming from the playroom than I care to reveal. Moreover I had a chance this week to actually use the phrase "If you're going to be smashing your brother's head into the floor, please do it on the carpet not the hardwood." Which brings me to Napoleon.
Here again the body-politic would see a demure child with heart-melting bright blue eyes, and a smile that you want to keep in a jar and share with the world's most down-trodden. Underneath hides a scheming, megalomaniac with a significant inferiority complex, and, as this one year old learns to speak apparently, a bad french accent. And this time the genotype can't be blamed on mother. Nope. This one is all me.
No, in this child we have a combination of long-standing franco-canadian heritage mixed with a healthy dose of english pride just waiting to be told, "you can't" or "please don't" or "stop" so he can excuse his ensuing behavior with the thoughts: "they should've known better."
Napoleon truly didn't fully emerge until the words started to form. It's not mama, but "mamon", it's never no!, but a sharp "NON", and beyond that it's mostly mumbling and gesticulating with that incredibly powerful index finger.
Now I assume that the original Napoleon didn't have any trouble drawing people into favour with him. A man who is able to anoint himself emperor and have countless fight and die on behalf of his autocracy would have to be incredibly charming. We've got that nailed. The original Napoleon was reputed to be remarkably small in stature. There again-- compliments of dad. The original Napoleon was french. I thought we might have to have an intervention the way this child scarfs down croissants, and certainly his ability to turn his nose up at any other food lately smacks of parisian heritage, but the real coup-de-grace comes with his language development. I thought we might have a psycopath on our hands as he started walking around pointing and shouting "pain, PAIN!" but then I remembered that's bread-- en francais. Children have a notoriously difficult time with the sound of the letter "L" but the french got around "l'eau" and "lait" with "wine" and believe me we're getting enough of that around here too.
As I said before, our history books and comic books never tell us the true story of what it was like to raise these icons, but there are days when a little dickie-wearing, button coated, silly hatted Napoleon is lying ass up, trousers down shouting "I weel not have my pants changed!" while kicking his two stubby little legs furiously sending "le poop" around "le room".
As a father, you often win, but when you have a 19 month old look you over as if he's plotting to overthrow you within a fortnight for making him sit through another "peetiful american meal". Then you realize that he's actually manipulated a giant green-monster into his employ; sometimes you feel like you have to sleep with one eye open. Or both eyes. Well, actually I'm an insomniac.
And it isn't helping that while you held him down trying once again to wrangle a pair of elastic-waist Wranglers back on he is shaking his finger at you and blurting something akin to: "Oh, you theenk you've whon thees one papa, but watch your back, mon amie, because me and dat giant, we are going to come in da night and burn your village to da ground. Dunnut theenk we won't."
Thankfully this week the pressure is off. While "Bruce" was throwing a fit over why I wouldn't let him put his dinner back in the fridge so he could have "Gorilla Munch" he interrupted Napoleon who was in the pantry plotting out exactly how to arrange the shelves to "make eet look like an axy-dent." Caught, he instictively threw his hands in the air in the universal sign of "wasn't me" and got his finger caught in the door as it came off the hinges at the giant green hands of "The Hulk".
So lately the military genius has been working at slowly getting back at the reactive scientist. "Oops" he says "deed I heet you in the mouth wit my wadder boddle? Oh je m'excuse... was that your cookie I ated... Oh my I was theenking, did'ee want that toy destroyed, was that your favoreet? please won't you forgeeve me? You see this giant purple finger of mine, still weeping from the pain you caused eet? Yes, I have not forgotten eidder. Sleep well mon frere. Sleep well..."
I am just not equipped to raise Napoleon.
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