Superboys

Eamon was 4 years old the day he discovered Superman. He was watching an old rerun of a “Superfriends” cartoon when he called me to his side.

“He's a man of steel, Mama,” he breathed with wonderment, his eyes never leaving the television screen. Soon after, Superman began making regular appearances at our home. With a red sweatshirt cape flying boldly from his neck, he would swoop down the stairs and land at my feet. He would strike that unmistakable superhero pose, arms folded across his chest and chin jutting out, and ask if I needed any rescuing today.

In his imaginary battles against the “Legion of Doom,” he always claimed victory. There was something about fighting for “truth, justice, and the American way” that Eamon found particularly attractive.

Early in my career as a mother of boys, I dismissed my sons' attraction to fighting as an unhealthy inclination toward violence. Play-fighting troubled me, so I outlawed toy weapons in our home. Eamon, and his younger brother Ambrose, however, were not discouraged by silly rules. Ever resourceful, they bit their toast into buttery pistols, whittled sticks into swords and the battle was on.

It was then that I discovered I had largely misunderstood their boyish passions. Play battles aren't so much about violence as they are about the eternal struggle between good and evil. And that's written even on their little hearts.

In their minds, my sons are variously St. Michael thrusting Satan into hell, David defeating the mighty Goliath and American soldiers bringing freedom to oppressed people all over the globe. They exhibit a fierce sense of righteousness as they protect the weak and rid the world of evil. They are learning how to be the good guys.

By watching them, I have come to realize that it's not the masculine inclination toward fighting that I object to. It's the godless ways in which the aggressive impulse is encouraged and exploited in the modern world that I find distasteful. There is a whole realm of evil for us to fight. Rather than attempting to squelch our sons' manly tendencies, we should teach them which battles to fight and how to fight them well.

One recent night, Eamon, who is now 7, got up soon after going to bed. News of weapons and violence in Iraq had been on the television earlier that evening and the grown-ups in our household had been discussing chemical weapons and bio-terrorism. Eamon was worried that bad men might use their weapons against our home and our family. Although I assured him that American soldiers were doing a good job protecting us and that we were safe, he was still uneasy.

“Mama,” he said, “do the good guys always win?”

I hesitated. Even with his limited experience, Eamon is old enough to understand that the world is not perfect. Once in a while, he knows, the bad guys do seem to win. Sometimes a pushy bully dominates the slide at the playground. Sometimes parents misunderstand a sibling quarrel and a guilty kid goes unpunished.

What a joy, though, to be able to tell my son that, despite the presence of evil in the world, ultimately the good guys do always win. Jesus Christ, I told him, is the ultimate superhero. In the end all goodness shall be rewarded and all evil punished. If we are soldiers for Christ, we can be sure we are always on the winning team.

As I am folding laundry one recent afternoon, my youngest son, 2-year-old Stephen, approaches and hands me a toy musket. “On,” he demands, and so I help him pull the strapping over his head and adjust it until the gun hangs just right at his side. He grunts his appreciation, pops a pacifier in his mouth and heads out the front door to save the world.

May God go with him.

Danielle Bean writes from Center Harbor, New Hampshire.