P. D. Clifton

I’m watching Ant-Man and the Wasp with Annie, in our living room.

It’s terrific! Exciting and action-packed but also fun and with tongue-firmly-in-cheek. I mean, it’s about insect-sized superheroes… how seriously can it take itself?

I’m enjoying it at least as much as the first Ant-Man and Annie appears to be loving the movie too.

We’re watching a scene, near the start, where Ant-Man (without his super-costume on) is sliding down a massive home-made slide, through the corridors and down the stairways of his roomy city home. His young daughter is sat on his lap, the whole while, squealing with delight. It’s obviously a great bonding experience for the two of them – a narrative device to show how close father and daughter are.

Annie watches this scene ruefully. ‘Dad?’ she asks. ‘Why can’t you be more like Ant-Man?’

Now, Annie has a habit of comparing me unfavourably to the fathers of her friends (actual real fathers) who are – on the face of it – more exciting than me. She does this to my face, in her usual take-no-prisoners fashion.

If the other fathers have a full head of hair (unlike me), I come off even worse in the comparison.

Annie is usually at her most blunt, on this subject, after I’ve picked her up from a playdate with one of her school-friends. ‘Her house is amazing,’ Annie might say, after clambering into my car. ‘It’s a farm, so there’s so much to do! Her dad took us on a ride through the fields ON A JEEP!’

‘Why can’t you be more like him, Dad?’ she’ll finish, plaintively. ‘He’s really fun.’

‘I’m sure he isn’t fun all the time,’ I frown.

‘Yes he is,’ Annie asserts, based on who knows what evidence.

When Annie says things like this, she isn’t being completely serious (I like to think, at least). Of course, she’s winding me up for the pure joyful pleasure of it. But there’s always a grain of truth behind her words. Apparently, my daughter at least half-believes these other dads are a cut above the one she’s been saddled with.  

And now Ant-Man has been added to the growing list of superior fathers.

‘I don’t think comparing me to Ant-Man is completely fair, Annie,’ I say as Ant-Man and his daughter continue hurtling down the slide in the movie.

‘For one thing,’ I continue, ‘he’s a superhero, with amazing powers. And for another… this is a movie, and things like this don’t happen in real life.’

‘I think you’re setting unrealistically high expectations of how much fun a father can actually be,’ I conclude, pompously. 

But Annie isn’t listening to me. She’s watching, transfixed, as Ant-Man and his daughter fly off the bottom of the slide and crash (harmlessly) into a fence in their garden – giggling the whole while.

THAT’S how a father should be, her wide-eyed expression says. And it’s clear I have no choice. I need to get superpowers. Or, at the very least, build a humongous slide.

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