My Papa has a problem. He thinks he's superman. No matter how old I get, he's constantly trying to fly to my rescue, fixing this, buying me that. (This is not a complaint!) I think I know why...I'm encouraging the problem. This Father's Day, I was about to dash out of the driveway with my babies, but my car wouldn't start. My hubby was out of town, so I did what any rational Polish girl would do...call her Papa. He was there, of course, and had lots to say about the car. Even though the stroke of repairing genius came from my Mom, somehow he managed to get the credit for it. Maybe because it was Father's Day, maybe because we all feel sorry for him because he looks so weird from chemo treatments...no couldn't be that...he looked weird before chemo. I think it's because he often is the superhero in my life. Some things never change. My Dad will always lose his glasses, he'll always scare the person sitting by him at dinner with his wild hand movements, he'll always have a hankering for disgusting onion sandwiches, he'll always drive away with his coffee cup on top of his car...and he'll always be superman. As part of their driver's education, I'm going to teach my daughters how to dial his phone number.