I’m a superhero.

We went to see Incredibles 2, and there I am, up on the screen. Dishevelled hairline receding with worry. Eyes sunken and grey. Wife going out to save the world leaving me to manage three impossible children, each with their own bizarre attributes.

We thought the first two were strange enough. Now there’s Jack Jack. I mean, my one-year-old. Take your eyes off him for two consecutive seconds and he has the uncanny ability to teleport onto the dining table. Behind the TV. Inside the cupboard. Somehow now carrying a handful of felt tips from the child-latch protected felt tip drawer and the TV remote from the high shelf, and my phone.

As Jack Jack wreaked havoc on screen, our one-year-old reached that point that all one-year-olds reach in the cinema.

There is no more drink or oatcakes or rice cakes. He’s emptied my wallet and my wife's purse out into the darkness around our feet. He’s thrown his teddy into the next row.

He has wriggled and writhed and whinged, and now he’s had enough.

As the film reaches its denouement, and Jack Jack is clobbering everyone, our own Jack Jack is bellowing in rage, ruining the film for hundreds.

Then, suddenly he stops. I turn to see him laughing hysterically. And amazingly, my wife is laughing too, as he clobbers her repeatedly in the side of the head with the cup holder insert.

It’s one of those parenting moments when you suddenly see how much your life has changed. Getting hit in the head with a plastic cup is the preferable option. Which is hilarious.

I am not like Mr Incredible in one minor way. I have no super powers. My wife on the other hand...