Supervision and Super Vision

The difference between me and Superman, according to my wife, is that Superman has super vision, while I need supervision. Now, I’d like to argue the point, but the truth is she’s got me nailed down tighter than the lid on Grandma’s pickle jar.

Superman could see through walls and across whole city blocks. I can’t see my own reading glasses when they’re sitting right on my forehead.

Take last Tuesday, for example. My wife asked me to keep an eye on the pot roast in the oven while she ran to the store.

I heard her, but in the way a husband sometimes hears—like when a football game is on and every word sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown. I nodded, gave her my “yes, dear” face, and sat down to check the ball scores.

By the time she came back, the kitchen looked like a smokehouse in full production. The fire alarm was hollerin’, the dog was hiding in the bathtub, and the roast–well, it got reduced to something resembling a blackened meteorite.

I tried to explain that Superman never had to juggle the pressures of temperature dials, timers, and play-by-play commentary at the same time, but my wife just shook her head and said, “You need supervision.”

And she’s right.

I can’t walk through a grocery store without her reminding me to stick to the list. Left on my own, I come back with three bags of chips, a jar of neon-orange cheese spread, and maybe a loaf of bread if I’m feeling responsible. She has the kind of eyesight that can find a bruised apple at ten paces, while I’m the guy squinting at the milk carton trying to figure out if it says sell by or smell by.

Superman has X-ray vision. My vision’s more like “ex-ray vision”—as in, I can’t see a thing without my glasses, and even with them, I tend to miss the obvious.

Once, I spent half an hour looking for the TV remote only to discover I’d been sitting on it the whole time. My wife claims she saw it there right away, but decided to let me struggle for sport.

That’s called “marriage enrichment.”

Now, if we’re talking about supervision, that’s where my wife truly shines. She can keep track of everything–me, the dog, the house, the bills, the groceries, and the neighbor’s cat if it wanders into the yard.

She’s got the sharpness of a hawk, the patience of a saint, and the reflexes of a goalie. I’m just trying not to trip over my own shoes.

I once asked her if she ever dreamed of being married to someone with Superman’s powers. She didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said, “I’ve got all the super I can handle. I just wish you’d remember to put the seat down.”

The thing is, she’s not wrong. I do need supervision, and I’m not ashamed of it.

It’s part of the deal. Some folks are blessed with super vision—seeing what others can’t. I’m grateful for someone who sees what I don’t and still stays to guide me in the right direction.

In the end, I suppose it balances out. Superman might be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I can mow the lawn without losing a toe, thanks to my wife’s watchful eye.

He might have heat vision, but I’ve got a woman who makes sure I don’t burn down the kitchen trying to reheat leftovers. So no, I don’t have super vision, but I’ve got the best kind of supervision a man could ask for—and if you ask me, that’s a whole lot better.