Heroes! Ha! Heroes!

I have a four year-old son who aspires to be the Hulk. I wonder if he has seen that particular role model displayed around the house, although in our house it would be an angry pink colossus known as "The Flab", and I am the only one who fits that description.

We have had a wonderful week of school holidays, the purpose of which was to do as little as possible. The plan was to make full use of the preschool facility being open through the holidays and deposit the Noo there, ship our eldest, Beks, off to Ballet Camp and that would leave the adrenaline junky, seven year-old Andy-Pants to entertain, which would usually entail tossing a ball somewhere close to a flat wall and let the natural propensity of balls and flat walls take its course.

The ultimate conclusion - much more "me" time.

But the best laid plans of mice and men . . .

Being teachers our stress is cyclical, rather than persistent as in the corporate world, or so I am told. These stress pockets usually manifest around our deadlines for assessments towards the end of the school terms. Being a language teacher this usually involves late nights and early mornings, just to get the work done. Under stress, with limited sleep, nerves are frayed, tensions amplified and so on and so forth, etcetera, etcetera.

Who are the recipients of our two dimensional, grouchy selves but our kids? Even if there are no altercations, like finely tuned seismographs that sense the smallest, or most traumatic of tremors, they pick up on the tension evident in the atmosphere. But, instead of just measuring, they respond.

These responses often manifest in the smallest of actions, forgetfulness to bring homework home, not preparing adequately for a test or assignment. There are physical confrontations on the sports' field, and the cataclysmic loss of the birthday skateboard "because I left it in the yard and forgot to lock the gate".

The Noo needs physical contact. When insecure, he will want to eat his meals on your lap, even while you eat. He sleeps holding on to your ears (a habit since he was four or five days-old), and will walk down the street holding onto your trouser leg. His love language: definitely touch.

So, we did not send him off to the surrogate preschool for the holiday, but rather thought to "endure" the limpet affections of our youngest, only to find that that is exactly what we needed.

We needed the little goblin hugs and spontaneous kisses, and ball sports with flat walls and to catch up on past episodes of Veggie Tales. We needed to be Hulk, or Captain America or John Smit for the week, because when encountered with the reality of our own flesh and blood I realised that they are our best friends and that with their propensity to love unconditionally and to give abundant hugs kisses and snuggles, they have become my heroes.