That superhero thing - again

I like saving people. It makes me feel like I'm invaluable. It gives me definition. It helps bring meaning to an otherwise staid, normal existence. I want to be a superhero. What I find so thoroughly attractive about the whole superhero concept, is that these exceptional champions do amazing things and once they're finished saving the world, they assume their mild-mannered alter-egos and disappear into the background. Not looking for reward or accolade. Just knowing that what they've done has changed someone else's world in a BIG way.

I'd like to do that. I want to rescue people from their frets and woes, save them from awful circumstances, and then fade quietly into the background. I get embarrassed when people make a fuss of me. I don't like it. It makes me feel awkward. Let me save you, then please leave me alone and stop reminding me about it. I did it because, I hope, you would have done the same thing for me. If you want to say thank you, that's fine and you're welcome, but that's all you need to do. Don't tell everyone else, or keep harping on about it. It makes me feel like you think I did it for the attention, which, trust me, I can't handle as it is. 

I guess it's one of the characteristics that distinguishes the super hero from the villain. The villain seeks perpetual reward and recognition and pay - lots of it. He wants people to be forever in his debt, or if not, then at least to dominate them forever. With magnetic storms. And laser beams.

But enough with the villains and back to the superheroes. While I seek my super powers daily, I am convinced that real live superheroes already dwell amongst us. Take nursery school teachers, for instance. 

Today I "helped out at" (read as: saved people at) Air Bear's school for the whole morning. (Please, save your applause, I do not do this on a regular basis).

There we were: 2 adults up against 20-something ankle-biters. 

You go into something like that knowing, from the start that you are outnumbered. Your only weaponry is your age and the experience that you have (hopefully) collected along the years. "Can they be defeated?" I asked myself as I stepped through that kiddy-locked security gate. "Will I make it out alive?"

For a moment my life flashed before my eyes: images of pre-kid irresponsibilty; spontaneous trips to the cinema; sitting at home sipping on a cup of hot coffee; a manicure, neat and French; cruising on a yacht along the Cote D 'Azure (Wait a minute! That's not my life! Must have been a crossed wire - I looked up to see the other adult, eyes closed, also gathering herself together before the day officially started). 

"You been to France?" I ask. 

She blushes and shrugs, "One day... You ready for this?" 

I strap my helmet in place, army boots and bullet-proof jacket secured and ready. "I was born ready!"

"Er, right," she thinks I'm weird. "Whatever you do, don't let your guard down!"

For the next three and a half hours we are assaulted from every side. Ear-splitting shrieks and wails fill the air. A blast of sand explodes from the sandpit. There are casualties, "He threw sand in my eye!" wails a mercenary disguised in slip-slops and pig tails. 

I tend to the gunky eye. It was a ploy to distract my attention. I get an unexpected cricket bat across my left shin. The little guerilla holding the weapon looks at me with wide horrified eyes. "It slipped," he whispers, drops the offending instrument and scurries up the jungle gym.

A movement just outside of my line of vision catches my attention, curls and diapers are clambering up the neighbour's wall. I manage to apprehend the clamberer just before they get out of hands' reach. The diaper carries weapons of mass destruction. Lucky for me, I am well-trained in disarming these bombs.

Inside now to tend to what turns out to be more than I bargained for. Changing your own kid's bum is one thing, but somebody else's rug rat's stinky nappy is another matter altogether! At last it was done. Or so I thought: the guerillas turn out to be toilet-synchronised.

I lost count of how many bums I wiped today. More than 30, I'm sure (some of them had to go more than once). And the peeling skin on my hands is my war-wound for all the hand washing I was subjected to throughout the morning.

Come lunch time, I stand proudly by my Air Bear as she opens her colourful, packed-to-the-brim lunch box, and help myself to a handful of rations (since I forgot to pack anything for myself). 

A yoghurt grenade zooms through the sky and erupts in strawberry flavoured goo across the wall and my denims. Quick clean-up. 

Three little militants have started to leak toxic waste from their noses. I grab a handful of tissues and start to wipe. One terrorist assumes it would be very clever to blow her nose on the tissue I offer her. Only, she does it before I'm in position. Premature nasal discharge leaves me scrubbing hazardous material off my hands.

The day ends with a story told by yours truly. For the first time the whole morning the little group settles down. Some thumb-sucking spreads through the assembly. Suitable bear growls are suggested to contribute to Goldilocks's experience in the woods.

And the day is over. The little tykes are returned to their primary care-givers. And I am finished! Quietly relieved that I don't do this every day.

Only someone who is waterproof, elastic, inflammable, has extra eyes, extra hands and moves at the speed of light can really be a successful nursery school teacher.

So glad I know one of those.