My husband, the superhero

I took my 6-year-old son shopping, found a pair of great chocolate brown cargo pants on sale for a great price, and then found myself having to gently persuade him to adore them and want to take them home. And I had to get creative about it because apparently, as a 6-year-old boy, the fact that all your other pants are floods just isn't reason enough.

"Wow...check out the really cool cargo pockets," was oh-so-deftly deflected with a shrug and thoroughly bored "eh". Apparently, 'cool' isn't a hot-button word, yet, where clothes are concerned.

Time to kick it up a notch. Go for the kill. Be ruthless.

"OOOooooo!!" I cooed.

He looked up.

"Look what I found! Wow! Check out this super secret pocket!" I let out a well-placed drama-heightening gasp. "Sweetie, do you know what these are?"

"What?" he asked, failing to keep the tiny glimmer of interest hidden behind a voice of boredom and suspicion.

"This is a spy pocket, for spy gear, I'm just sure of it. I think we found the only pair of spy pants in the store! And they fit you! Oh my gosh!"

His eyes lit up. He insisted I adjust the inner waistband to fit him right then and there. He asked to wear them out of the store. Mission accomplished.

Turns out I really started something. The next morning, I was lazing around in bed - as I tend to do now that I'm pregnant and on doctor-ordered 'modified' activity/bed rest - and I was directing our son through his morning get-ready routine. He came in, dressed except for pants, and asked to wear the new pants.

"No, sorry, sweetie, they need to be washed first. I'll wash them today and they'll be ready for you to wear tomorrow. Today's going to be really hot, anyway, so you really should wear a pair of your shorts."

Much huffing and puffing emanated as he sulked back down the hallway to his room and selected a pair of shorts. He re-emerged in our bedroom door, shorts in hand, and began to lay out his case against wearing anything but the spy pants. My husband looked at me with confusion in his eyes and mouthed, "Spy pants?" I gave him the look that says, "Yes, spy pants, what else? I'll tell you about it later."

My husband turned to our son and said, "Do you want me to make those into spy shorts for you?"

Our son looked at him in awe and held out his shorts.

My husband took the shorts, and disappeared into our bathroom with them. Our son climbed up onto the bed with me and looked at me for an explanation. I had none. I just shrugged my shoulders, "I don't know, honey."

Suddenly, we hear "Bang! Bang! Bang! Crinkle, rustle, crinkle, SLAM! Squeeka-squeeka-squeeka-SHWOOP!" Our eyes both were huge as we looked at each other in surprise and started laughing. Me, because I knew exactly what my husband was up to in there, but my son? My son was laughing with complete abandon and glee. The kind of belly laugh that you don't realize until you hear it from him again, that it has begun to disappear from his everyday interaction with life.

It was a purely magical moment for both of us. "Shoop-crunch-shoop-crunch-PING. Clickey-clickey-CLINK. BAM! BAM! BAM!" continued my husband. We roared with laughter. My husband emerged from the bathroom, holding the shorts aloft and proclaimed them Super Spy Shorts for evermore. My son couldn't wait to put them on and run off to the breakfast table.

But not before turning to me with pure awe and admiration in his eyes and voice, "I didn't know Dad was a superhero spy!"

"Yes, he is," I replied.

And he is.

He saved my life. No, really and actually saved my life. This was years ago, and before we were even considering dating. Well, okay, before I was even considering dating. I never was that kind of girl who dreamed of a man to come and rescue me - though I reveled in fairytales and stories of knights, castles, lords and ladies, and any period film...most of which will always follow the 'fragile lady, rescuing man' pattern. And I fall for it every time. But in real life? - I can do it myself, thank-you-very-much. Well, except that time when I went into deep shock, fainted, went into convulsions, and my heart stopped. Except for that, I'm totally self-rescuing.

I was alone for the weekend, heartbroken and bereft, packing and preparing to move out, after calling off my wedding due to my then-fiancee cheating on me and then breaking things off. Thank goodness the lab where my then-buddy, now-hubby worked was about 1/4 of a mile from my house, on the same road, and he'd stopped by after work to check on me.  I spent 3 days in ICU.  He came to see me every day.

Anyway, as if saving my life wasn't enough for activating my hero-swooning complex, rekindling life as magical for our son really pushed it over the top. I am now more inclined than ever to forgive him for the sink-in-pieces, uninstalled medicine cabinet and light fixture, bucket-and-crateful of tools, 3 bags and a loose pile of hardware supplies that have been living scattered across the floor of our bathroom for about a year now. The same ones I've cursed him for as I've stubbed every toe during my myriad of dead-of-night pregnant bathroom pilgrimages.

But now I walk into the bathroom, see all that junk laying around, and the medicine cabinet on the floor still waiting to be installed, and I smile and giggle just a little.

Our superhero.