The other Saturday morning, as my wife and youngest child were out walking the dogs, my seven-year old ran into the bedroom to wake me up.

“Bzzzztttt,” he shouted. “I shot you with my lasers!”

I rolled over to face him. My loving wife had left the bedroom lights on anyway, so sleep was pretty much out of the question.

“Ahh,” I said. “I’m Energy Man. I eat energy.” I sat up and reached for him.

“Na-ah,” he said, backing away. “Lasers aren’t energy.”

I smiled. “Actually, they are. Light is energy, and lasters are just really intense light.”

He whipped his fingers out in classic western gunfighter form and shouted “Bang, bang! I shot you with my guns.”

“Uch,” I convulsed and fell back in bed. “You got me, Uck, ack, ah… energy. I’m getting stronger again.”

His eyes widened and darted frantically around the room. Then he ran from light switch to light switch, turning all of them off. “Ha-ha!” he said. “Now you don’t have any energy,”

I let all my breath out in one big sigh, closed my eyes, and relaxed into my pillow.

It didn’t last. After a few precious moments of almost snoozing, the lights came back on.

“I’m bringing you back to life,” he said. “So you can be my sidekick.”

That’s the problem with being Energy Man. They never let you sleep in.

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