Val Muller

Last year, I read an article in National Geographic magazine about Emily Briere, an aerospace engineering student who started a student-run project to send a small time capsule to Mars. Her goal in orchestrating the project is for future generations of humans who live on Mars to see what we are like here on Earth, today. (You can learn about the project at http://www.timecapsuletomars.com/)

In many ways, this reminds me of the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, a vault located close to the North Pole, the purpose of which is to store seeds to ensure a diversity of species in case of a human or natural disaster. (Learn more at https://www.croptrust.org/our-work/svalbard-global-seed-vault. ) When I first saw a picture of the vault’s magnificent entrance, I felt waves of emotion.

In both these instances, I see the same hope that we have when planting a tree: in many cases, when we plant a tree, we know we won’t be living in that area—or living at all—once the tree reaches its full height. But we plant the tree anyway, hoping to improve that particular yard, lot, property, or planet, knowing deep down that there will be others there to enjoy it.

When the news often likes to show all that is negative about our world and our politics, it’s easy to forget that most of what individuals do is done with great optimism. The reason we save money or make home improvements or plant a garden or a tree or a flowerbed is because we have hope for the future. Emily Briere is working on her time capsule because she has hope and faith that one day, humankind will arrive on Mars. The seed vault is more of an insurance policy, but it works with hope as its underlying driver: even if there is a natural or human-made disaster, it presumes that there will be humans left to rebuild the planet the way it needs to be, with plenty of plant diversity.

When life gets me down, I try to think about the reasons I don’t eat an entire pizza at once or spend all my money or fail to water my plants. It’s not habit or routine or fear: it’s a driving sense of hope that the actions I’m taking now will have positive repercussions in the future.

As the end of summer draws near, I wanted to share one of my favorite news stories from the season.

It seems that hatred is so contagious, and the media seems to ignite the worst feelings we have. For several days this summer, I avoided social media: after the violence in Virginia in August, it seemed even friends were attacking each other online, saying things that shocked me and things they would likely not say in person. It’s one of the reasons I post this Fantastic Friday feature. Kindness is contagious, too—it’s just not as virulent as its opposite. My hope is that by sharing positive stories and observations, I can do my small part to make this world just a bit better.

So it brings happiness to me when I read a story like this one. In Minnesota, a 94-year old man named Keith Davison recently lost his wife of 66 years. After suffering the terrible loneliness that followed, he decided to reach out to others. He built an expansive in-ground pool and allows the neighborhood kids to swim in it all summer long (under their parents’ supervision, of course). Though he doesn’t have grandchildren of his own, the kids of the neighborhood have become like family.

While we’re not all lucky enough to have a neighbor who can build us a pool for the summer, the spirit of what he did is one I like to keep in the back of my mind. Mr. Davison solved a personal problem by reaching out to do something for others. Whether it’s holding the door for someone, letting someone merge into the lane without aggression, “paying it forward” at a drive-thru, or leaving a kindness rock for a complete stranger to find, small acts of kindness can be the thing that makes someone’s day, the thing they think about with a smile before falling asleep.

This post comes when some parents will be glad that school is back in session–and teachers will remember just how hard their jobs are.

Earlier this year, I attended a writing workshop, and we were asked to respond to several prompts in a compressed amount of time—around five minutes.

One of the prompts was a picture, featuring a toddler freaked out by a bird sitting on her head:

Photo from: http://twentytwowords.com/toddler-freaked-out-by-a-bird-on-her-head/

http://twentytwowords.com/toddler-freaked-out-by-a-bird-on-her-head/. We had five minutes to write.

Naturally, my mind turned to my own toddler. In trying to describe what it’s like to watch a toddler all day, I often compare it to watching a drunk person: They are often entertaining. Indeed, I find myself laughing out loud at her sometimes. They make bad decisions and don’t think through consequences. They leave a lot of messes, including losing control of bodily functions. After a while, they get annoying and need a bit of a sleep.

I’ve read many articles insisting that none of the toddler behavior is intentional—that toddler brains are simply still developing, and what we see as belligerence is just their way of interacting with the world and learning/understanding rules and boundaries. But when my toddler holds a shovelful of sand up to her mouth and looks me in the eye—and then shoves it in her mouth when I say “no”—I can’t help but think there’s at least a bit of intentionality about it.

To entertain myself, I often think about the voice that would emerge if toddlers were articulate. Sort of like Stewie Griffin (but less evil). So here, as part of that entertainment, is the voice that emerged from the picture.

It was bad enough when Mommy took away the cheese grater I snatched from the dishwasher. So shiny and textured. Why would she put it in there if she didn’t want me to have it?

Why would she have anything that she didn’t want me to have?

Then came lunch. Baked beans. Baked beans? What was she thinking? Three boxes of fruit punch Go-Gurt, and she tries to give me baked beans! You know those were headed straight for the floor. She might have saved time by flinging them there herself.

I won’t even get into the indignities of naptime that followed. What does she think, she runs this place? And this phrase “You need sleep, I need a break,” what is that?

Meh, naptime just gives me time to plot.

I’d seen the birdie for a while now. It kept coming to the back door and pecking at the piece of doggie food I stuck in the doggie door. Mommy said not to touch it, that it had to stay lockie-locked. And that birdies are dirty and dangerous.

Well, I’ll show her. The lockie-lock is easy to unhook. Even a baby could do it.

Mommy, mommy, look at my new friend!

Since I teach Shakespeare as part of the AP Literature curriculum, I’ve read several plays multiple times, and often lines pop into my head at relevant—or irreverent—times.

Recently, Shakespeare and Toddler has been merging in my brain, so I thought I’d share some of the more entertaining bits.

Take the scene (I, v) from Hamlet in which the ghost of Hamlet’s murdered father reveals the cause of his untimely end. It’s a scene that’s supposed to cause rage and disgust in Hamlet, prompting him to action:

GHOST: Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

HAMLET: Murder?

GHOST: Murder most foul, as in the best it is.

But this most foul, strange and unnatural.

It doesn’t take much of a stretch to replace “murder” with “diaper” and assign the parts to two sleep-deprived parents rather than a Danish king and his heir. And the scene still works—how timeless indeed are Shakespeare’s plays!

Mom: Revenge this foul and most unnatural diaper.

Dad: Diaper?

Mom: Diaper most foul, as in the best it is.

But this most foul, strange and unnatural.

Then there’s Macbeth and the famous scene (V,i) in which Lady Macbeth can’t seem to get the sight of blood off her hands—literally and metaphorically. In this scene, she’s guilt-ridden about a murder that she essentially orchestrated and carried out for her hesitant husband. From this point until her death, she cannot seem to stop sensing the blood she’s seen spilled.

LADY MACBETH:

Out, damned spot! out, I say!–One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to do’t.–Hell is murky!–Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?–Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.

Once again, for any parent who has ever had a kid puke on them or near them or in the crevices of a car seat buckle (all those crevices!), it isn’t too far of a stretch to imagine it’s the scent of toddler puke–that curdled-milk-sour-bitter scent–that won’t go away:

Frazzled Mom:

Out, damned smell! out, I say!–One: two: why,
then, ‘twas time to puke it.—This car seat is murky!–Fie, my
nose, fie! a mother, and disgusted? What need we
fear who smells it, when none can call our cleaning power to
account?–Yet who would have thought the kid
to have had so much milk in her?

And finally, not to get too involved. But once in a while, all parents see that stubborn little glimmer in their children’s eyes and wonder if they are actually secretly plotting. All parents have been there: the child is content coloring/watching TV/playing with blocks until the parent sits down and tries to do something that requires five minutes of focus, like send an email or go to the bathroom or chop up something for dinner. And then the kid strikes. Throws a tantrum, starts eating a crayon, starts messing with the volume controls or throwing blocks at the dog… Is this a cute little child or a secret sinister villain?

I am reminded of Richard’s monologue in Richard III from the very start of the play:

RICHARD: Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front,
And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them–
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determinèd to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunk prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other;
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mewed up
About a prophecy which says that “G”
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul — here Clarence comes!

In the play, Richard is jealous of other members of his family/the court because he has been born deformed and cannot enjoy life and the company of women and others in the same way they can. So, to make himself feel better, he decides (essentially) to become a super villain. In a sleep-deprived mind wanting just a few minutes of solitude and concentration, a toddler can easily start to look like a master villain, at least for a few minutes:

Toddler: Now is the winter of my discontent
Made glorious summer by this show of Peppa;
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
In the deep bosom of cereal puffs buried.
Now are my brows bound with victorious dress-up clothes,
My sticky toys strewn about like treasures,
Mom’s stern alarums changed to merry singing,
Her dreadful instructions to delightful silence…
Grim-visaged playtime hath smoothed the wrinkled front,
And now, instead of commanding clean-up duty
To kill the soul of toddler play,
Mom capers nimbly at her laptop, typing
To the pleasant sounds of grown-up music.
But I, that am not shaped for laptop use
Nor made to appreciate beautiful grown-up songs;
I, that can rudely stamp, and want nimble fingers
To type upon a laptop’s gentle keys,
I, that am curtailed of this tall proportion,
Cheated of height by dissembling Nature,
Toddling, unskilled, desiring before my time
To play with knives, stovetops, make up
And all so lamely kept beyond my bounds
That parents bark at me as I attempt them–
Why I, in this weak piping moment of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see Mom clean up my mess
And circumvent my own limitations.
And therefore, since I cannot prove a grown-up
To entertain these fair silent moments,
I am determinèd to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these seconds.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By milk-drunk tantrums, actions, and thoughts,
To set my Mother and her spouse
In deadly fear that I might destroy something of the other
And if Mom’s time at her computer be as true and just
As I am wild, sugar-filled, and treacherous,
This day should Mom closely be mewed up
About a premonition which says that “I”
Of her free time the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul — here Mommy comes!

Well, maybe it’s not quite that deep in the mind of a toddler. Maybe laptop keys simply make a cool clicky sound. Maybe electric outlets and sharp knives and hot stovetops look like smiley faces and sparkling glitter and glowing lights.

Or maybe that toddler does have super villain tendencies.

In any case, it’s entertaining to imagine. And sometimes, while cleaning up spilled cereal or poured-out milk or an open Go-Gurt that got thrown at the dog, it makes the time pass more quickly. As Shakespeare observes in Macbeth, “Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.”

But it runs much faster if you can laugh about it.

If you like villains, check out The Scarred Letter. In the novel, a reboot Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, R. Burton Childress takes on the persona of Hawthorne’s Roger Chillingworth as he plots against the protagonists and all that is good in the world.

You can even read the first few chapters for free and receive a coupon for 35% off at Barking Rain Press.