Yes, Superdad Can.

Hi there, I’m Superdad.

This post is going to be rambly and somewhat lacking in humility because I am in the midst of manifesting the full awesomeness of my powers – the Wife has just gone out to do her hair and eyebrows and potentially some shopping, leaving me alone with Truett & Kirsten.

I have successfully cleaned, bathed, fed, and put to sleep a three week old baby and a year old toddler all by myself, without the use of tranquilizers.

More reasons why I am super? Well..

1)      I am faster than a speeding bullet in preparing the milk, changing the diaper and attending to the Wife’s every whim and fancy,

2)      I am more powerful than a locomotive in opening stubborn bottle caps of baby food jars and,

3)      I can carry a month’s worth of groceries from the car all the way to my house (up a flight of steps) in a single bound.

I have been hailed as the sexiest man alive and am known as an extremely , ahem, fruitful individual, thanks in no small part to an overenthusiastic colleague who yelled “ WOW! YOU ARE DAMN FERTILE” at the top of her lungs -the entire office was shaken – when she found out we were expecting Kirsten barely 5 months after Truett was born.

A bit of background here on my powers. I am an ordinary 28 year old dude but in my quest for extraordinariness, I turned  to equipment for that little bit of extra.  I guess I’m kinda more in the Batman vein of superness with all that gear (except that I won’t call myself BatDad, if I’m not wrong it sounds this place in the middle east or something. Ok, I’m actually trying to be witty here – I do know where that is, alright? You think I don’t know my South African geography?)

While I haven’t actually gotten down to using a Man-Boob like Greg Gaylord Focker, I do need my Brest Friend’s help in feeding Kirsten – somehow the ergonomics of a man’s arms just doesn’t do it for babies and the avoidance of milk spittle on me is great incentive for me to not mind looking somewhat ridiculous wearing it.

I do need the Miracle Blanket to induce Kirsten into a deep sleep or at least bind her like she’s some psychiatric patient so she doesn’t claw my eyes out.

I need my idiotic laundry dryer that has just died on me to save me the pain of hang-drying indoors so much so that my house now looks like a quaint shop selling antiquated undies.

But with the powers combined (and the equipment in place), I AM Superdad.

Question is, does the “super” even matter?

I’ve been talking to the Wife about how as Asians we tend to be brutally raised in a typically dysfunctional family with Dads that are aloof and at times outright violent in their parenting methods – and yet we turned out quite alright, pretty normal except for the occasional violent scream at an unwary stranger. Does it matter whether we are super or not? Perhaps Hitler’s Dad was a super dad for all we know.

Yet looking at the Wife and the two angels, it really doesn’t matter whether it matters or not, because I’m not quite raising baby Jesus himself. It doesn’t matter if they don’t invent the cure for Aids or the real iPhone killer or even appear in the local newspaper with half their body cropped out of a file photo.

I’m just enjoying the journey and trying to make it as easy for the Wife and as memorable for the kids as possible. And if they do turn become Stalinist one day at least they’ll look back and wonder “Boy, with the kind of childhood I had, how did I become this messed up?”

Kirsten is crying- Excuse me while I go put on my Brest Friend.

P.S Next week’s post is going to be so awesome it’s going to change your life.

P.P.S  No, I mean it, it really is awesome.

P.P.P.S  Tomorrow’s Super Sunday Giveaway is  awesome too.