My Old Man's A Superhero

"My Old Man's A Sailor -- whattaya think about that?" I sang out to the assembled Girl Scouts and moms at the Tea Party. I'd been tapped as the "entertainment" for this fancy-dress affair, and was leading a sing along. So far, so good. "He wears a sailor's collar, and he wears a sailor's hat. / He wears a sailor's raincoat, and he wears a sailor's shoes. / And every Saturday evening, he reads the Sailor's News. / And someday, if I can: I'm going to be a sailor / The same as my old man."

The song continues with increasingly complex titles to pack into two beats: anthropologist, refrigerator repairman, etc.; lots of fun, as the girls added their own dad's jobs. And then that little doll threw us all for a loop: "My old man's an Environmental Health and Safety Inspector! Whattaya think about that!" Thirteen mangled syllables of laughter ensued.

Afterward, I wondered: how many kindergartners really understand what their dads and moms do? Sure, the children of the construction workers, retail folks, restaurant staff, they can get it, they can see it; they're the lucky ones who, on Take Our Children to Work Day, get to drive fork trucks, run the cash register, mix Long Island Iced Teas. But the kids of a database administrator, writer/editor, public relations guy? They get to see Dad staring at his computer, mumbling something about table inner joins and exclusions, then talking into thin air. (Actually, I don't have to be in front of the computer to do this, but it seems less creepy told this way.)

It didn't have to be like this. I could have been a cucumber farmer. As a child, I craved cukes, and figured that if I farmed them, I could eat all I wanted. Turns out this same misapprehension leads foodies into opening restaurants, bibliophiles into owning bookstores, and Sweet, Sweet Blessed Angels of Lovingkindness into brewing fine beers.

The makers, the savers, the helpers -- the nurses, the mechanics, the cucumber farmers -- their kids can look at what they do, and say "THAT's cool! I want to do that." Their output is tangible. They're heroes. We so-called knowledge workers? Not so much. Except: see the delightful kid's book, "My Dad's Job" by Peter Glassman and Timothy Bush, in which a youngster interprets his father's working fighting off a hostile corporate takeover "raiders" as swashbuckling adventure heroism. That's more like it. We all want to be heroes, superheroes, even.

Which I am. Now it can be revealed: I am not merely Brian Lynch, writer, dad, and husband, but also (reaching into cloak, snapping out domino mask, affixing to face): SUPER PANCAKE MAN, whose filling breakfast treats fuel brilliant elementary students while getting them to school on time every time. Granted, it's probably not going to earn me a billet in the Legion of Superheroes, except maybe in their kitchen. ("C'mon, Cosmic Boy, we've got to capture Grimbor before he destroys the Multi-Verse!" "In a minute, Lightning Lass - just let me finish these incredibly light, fluffy pancakes.") Still, it's more exciting than my Super Bathroom Cleaner Dad identity, which admittedly does keep domestic life peaceful and germ-free.

Those aren't my only superpowers, either. I can also look make the phone ring by walking into the next room; identify actors doing voice overs in TV ads; or look at a kid and perfectly visualize the face he will have as a grown-up. However, lacking any drawing skills whatsoever, I cannot monetize this as a sketch artist. Still, it can't be disproven, since it will take decades for my mental vision to be proven out in the real world, and there's no hard evidence anyway. Perfect cover.

I've lately come to suspect that there may be others like me out there. To locate them, I did what anyone wishing to expand his knowledge does: I looked on Twitter and Facebook. Ninety minutes later, having discovered Twitter feeds for @kenosha_news and staff writer @ChrisBarncard, plus a nifty Klingon translator on Google... nothing. Nobody is admitting it, at least.

My old college friends did not disappoint, though. A mosaic artist in Dallas (nifty job!) claims "I am Rolodexia, Mistress of Referrals. Rolodexia knows all, refers all...." She often teams up our pal Shot Girl: "I'm your hero tonight and your villain tomorrow. Bwahahahaha!" Tantalizing hints were dropped about colleagues The Corkscrew Man and The Baconator; all together, they would constitute a Demonstrably More Fantastic Four. Why do I never get invited to these networking parties? This could really change the face of Business After 5.

I'm a team player, too, which is why I was puzzled when Rolodexia challenged me to a Pan-American Cake-Off with her secret recipe for Gingerbread Craisin Pancakes. Hey, when it comes to pancakes, it's not about dominating someone else, but about sharing the joy. In superhero terms, as long as the toddler chasing the ball is snatched clear of the onrushing tractor, I don't care whether it is by spider web, stretched Fantastic arm, telekinesis or optic-blast-propelling-boulder-into-metal-plate-creating-ramp-lofting-tractor-over-child.

It was writer/raconteur (excellent job title!) S. J. Perelman, though, who really summed up my ambitions best: "I'm just an old mad scientist at bottom. Give me an underground laboratory, half a dozen atom smashers, and a beautiful girl in a diaphanous veil waiting to be turned into a chimpanzee; and I care not who writes the nation's laws." An excellent job; and it would be pretty easy to sing, ""My Old Man's A Mad Scientist -- whattaya think about that!"