You can call me Superman

Confidence can be a dangerous thing when it comes to parenting. If you ever get that, "Hey, this is easy. I know exactly what I'm doing," feeling, then you know trouble is lurking around the corner.

Trust me on this.

My topsy-turvy experiences over the past 24 hours serve as a perfect case in point. It all started innocently enough. April and I walked over to Michael's kindergarten for our first parent-teacher conference yesterday afternoon. I was honestly curious about the verdict. Would Michael's teacher jump up, arms raised, and exclaim, "You are the greatest parents I have ever seen! They should build statues to your brilliance!" Or would it be something like, "Oh my goodness! What are you doing to that poor child! I can't believe he can even speak! You are the worst parents ever!!"

Well, as you might have guessed, the verdict was somewhere in the middle. Michael is a borderline genius when it comes to language (as anyone who has ever spoken with him can vouch for), yet he struggles with simple motor skills. He can tell you detailed information about dinosaurs and how the human kidney works, but he struggles to write his name.

Mrs. Hymas, who Michael has a huge crush on already, ended the conference by saying, "Michael is a wonderful kid and you guys are doing a great job with him."

Naturally I let this go straight to my head.

I left the classroom beating my chest and strutting like any respectable "SuperDad" would. We have several friends who spend every waking minute enrolling their children in music classes, language classes and quantum physics seminars. It was good to see my particular parenting style, which basically includes none of those things, validated. Turns out my kid is a smarty-pants just like his Mom, and even I can't ruin that!

We celebrated with a trip to the super-awesome Burger King playground. The one with the huge net-world-thingy that you climb up endlessly and shoot down numerous slides of death. I watched Michael embark on his journey into the net jungle with several other screaming kiddies, partaking in the traditional Daddy dinner of champions - A whopper, fries and a coke. Life was good.

April and I nodded knowingly to each other, content in the fact that we were brilliant parents doing brilliant work here.

This is precisely the moment we screwed up. Again.

For those new to this blog, Michael has several severe food allergies. His long list of no-no's includes nuts, eggs, wheat, milk, soy and strawberries. His diet consists almost entirely of fresh meat, fresh fruit, fresh veggies and rice milk. Any violation of this strict diet ushers forth tummy aches, crying, tantrums and sometimes what Wayne and Garth refer to as "blowing chunks."

Reveling in the glee of our celebration, April and I decided to strip off a piece of bacon from our sandwiches and give it to Michael. This would have been fine ... if it was actually bacon! We forgot that fast food restaurants often use, oh let's call it "mystery meat" in their products. They also fry anything and everything in vegetable oil (which is entirely soy). This was a rookie mistake on our part. We should know better than this!

So this morning Michael promptly wakes up and announces "My tummy hurts!!" Around 20 minutes later the blowing of chunks commences. So much for my "SuperDad" status.

When I tell Michael about the bacon, and apologize for my stupidity, the little guy unleashes yet another quote to remember. "It's okay Daddy," he says with a serious look. "And when Mommy comes home, I'll say, 'I forgive you.'"

Here's to forgiveness kiddies!

- Dave