My three-year-old daughter Eliza loves Spiderman. She tells me so all the time.

“Mama,” she’ll say in her serious voice. “I really, really like Spiderman.”

“I know you do, baby,” I tell her. “I know you do.”

I’m not entirely sure where the obsession started except that a friend’s son, Johnny, might have lit the spark. He’s since handed down t-shirts, coats, pajamas and muscle shirts all with Spiderman splashed across the front or back or both. Eliza was so enamored with Johnny’s light up shoes that she would wear them around whenever we were at his house. So the next time she needed shoes we found ourselves in Target.

“I don’t like these,” she said of every pair I tried to get her to try on. As I was reshelving shoes of every kind she slipped around to the next aisle.

“Mama, Mama!” I heard her squeal. “I want these!” She had found the same pair of light up shoes.

“You got it,” I said as I found her size.

She insisted on wearing those shoes out of the store. When they got too small a few months later, I tried to encourage her to get a pair of “summer” shoes. She would not have it and once again we landed in Target in front of the little boy shoes. We bought the exact same pair of shoes only two sizes larger than we had a few months before. She wore them all summer without socks.

When winter came so did a pair of Spiderman light up snow boots that nearly took her breath away when she opened them.

“Mama, these are, these are Spiderman!” she said barely able to get the words out she was so excited. She’s been wearing them ever since.

Eliza is not into girlie things. So far, she doesn’t play dress up unless it involves her Spiderman Halloween outfit complete with a mask. She doesn’t want to wear high heels, rather she’d prefer to put on her basket ballin’ clothes as she calls them. Football jersey, nylon shorts than come down to her knees, Spiderman light up tennis shoes, Spiderman backpack, hat backwards. She wears this outfit any chance she gets and often asks if her basket ballin’ clothes are clean when she can’t find them in her drawer. In her outfit, she strides through the house, announces she’s going basket ballin’ and tells me she’ll “check” me later. I’m not kidding.

She doesn’t want to comb her wild hair or put clips or ponytails in it.

“I’m fine,” she tells me when I suggest she can’t really see because her hair is in her eyes. “I’ll just do like this.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes with her hand then puts her hat on backwards.

Eliza moves through the world at full speed, unafraid and very physically capable. We’ve had few ER trips to prove it. Stitches under her eye, an almost broken finger. She is not timid, she is not shy and neither is her approach to the world. We often joke that Eliza will be the daughter who calls us from the parking lot in Yosemite to tell us she’s just climbed El Cap making her dad unspeakably proud and a little envious at the same time. She will do great things. She knows who she is and she is beautiful.

At her preschool parent-teacher conference a few months ago, Eliza’s teacher used the words confident and determined, head strong and observant.

“She’s gonna go far,” she said.

We knew what she was getting at. Eliza is stubborn. We live with her. We know it. The teacher said our kid was going to go far but we knew she meant she’s going to far even though she’s a headstrong pain the neck now.

It’s Eliza’s stubbornness that I run into head on anytime I try to get her to, say, wear a pair of tights or a very functional, yet cute, skirt a friend made for her.

“I don’t want to wear that,” she’ll say, “because I’m Spiderman, Mama.”

Right. How could I forget?

The truth is, she is Spiderman. She’s strong. She’s brave. She’s kind. I want her to stay this way forever.

Too soon will come jeans that fit just so, shoes that show an awareness of what other people think. Too soon we may see the doubts of adolescence, the pull of this society on her in ways that make me shudder to think about.  In those moments I’ll tell her about her light up shoes, her three-year-old obsession with a super hero. I’ll tell her, like she told a little boy at her preschool, that girls can be Spiderman.

For now I’ll watch this little person stride through the house in her basket ballin’ clothes, her hat backwards. I’ll say yes when she wants to wear her light up boots. I’ll tell her she can run fast and climb high. I’ll tell her she is strong, she is brave, she is confident, beautiful and kind. And if there comes a day when she isn’t feeling as though she is any of these things, I hope that on some thin slip of memory she remembers that she is.

Jennifer Savage is a writer and mama of Eliza and Lucille. Lately, she’s learning to be a city girl. She writes from her home in Missoula, Montana. She is also one of Mamalode’s favorite writers and you can fall in love with her too at Savagemama.com Read more of Jennifer’s mamalode articles here