If a kid wants to do a time capsule he’ll bury in your backyard, first he’ll ask for a box.
When you give him a box, he’ll ask for a few “simple” craft supplies so he can have something to fill it. He’ll ask for some markers so he can color a bookmark “to remember how he used to get all outside the lines when he was a little boy.” When he’s finished coloring the bookmark, he’ll ask for some memorabilia. Which means he’ll need access to your stack of old “treasure” papers so he can find something interesting that will remind him of his third grade year.
When you’ve told him, no, we’re not getting a stack of papers out, he’ll ask if he can stick his brother in the time capsule instead, and you’ll probably think he’s joking, but then you’ll notice the look he’s giving his brother, sizing him up as though to see whether he’ll actually fit in the box. And you’ll hesitate, because his brother, right now, is running off with the scissors he knows he’s not supposed to touch, with some loose strands of hair in his fist. But then, of course, you’ll say no. Of course you will.
You will.
He’ll then ask for a pen to write his future self a note and sign his name in the cursive he taught himself this summer. He’ll take so long writing the note you’ll ask him why he’s writing an entire book that he’ll have to sit down and read in five years, after he digs it all back up (if he remembers where he buried it, that is), and your asking him why he’s writing a book will remind him that he wants to put an actual already-written book from your bookshelves into his time capsule, because of course he’ll want to read a Pokémon graphic novel when he’s fourteen. When you say, no, he can’t put that book inside his time capsule, he’ll huff a little and ask you which book he can put inside the time capsule, and when you tell him that he can’t put any book in it because a book buried under the ground will likely begin to decompose, he’ll ask you if you think food would start to decompose, because even though he’s practically a genius in science, apparently he hasn’t learned or read about this part of the scientific process.
When you say yes, food will decompose, he’ll say, that’s okay, he thinks he’ll go ahead and put this whole bunch of grapes in it, and you’ll explain that not only is there no point to putting a whole bunch of grapes in a time capsule, because they’ll be gone in another month, but we also don’t waste food around the house, and he’ll have to come up with something else to put in the box. So he’ll realize, now, that the cardboard box will probably actually decompose during the time he plans to keep it underground, so he’ll ask for something more permanent—like a plastic container you’re not using. Before you’ve even answered, he’ll open up the cabinet where you keep all your containers, and he’ll rummage through the perfectly organized stacks until he finds a small glass one and holds it up so high that if he were to drop it, glass would shatter instantaneously.
Once all that’s sorted out and he’s taped up his box and is ready to go, he’ll ask for a shovel. You’ll tell him that you saw the shovel out in the front yard, and he’ll say, oh, yeah, his brother brought it out there because they were playing a sword fighting game and whoever got hit in the face and was still standing at the end of it was the king of the mountain, and you’ll look at him, slack-jawed, and he’ll take advantage of that moment to go out front and retrieve the shovel.
Then he’ll ask you where you’d like him to dig the hole.
Naturally, you’ll look around the backyard, which is already pretty much destroyed, and you’ll say nowhere, because there are enough holes already, can’t he just use one of the pre-dug ones? But he won’t let it rest, so you’ll point vaguely in a direction, knowing that it won’t really make much difference anyway, but you’ll add that he’s going to do the digging himself. He’ll look at the ground and stick the shovel in, and you’ll hear a jarring clang, because the soil is mostly rock. He’ll try again—and one more time—before he’ll ask you to help. You’ll politely decline, saying you need to get back inside to make sure his brother isn’t smashing flower pots for fun like you caught him doing the other day, and he’ll probably say something along the lines of no one loves him because no one will help him dig, and you’ll say something like he just wants to make someone else do the heavy lifting for him, and he’ll say something like you’re the meanest person in the whole world, but then he’ll ask you if you might actually give him a hand, please, because the ground is full of rocks, and he can’t do it. And you’ll feel a little sorry of him, so you’ll dig a little, too, even though all you have is a hand shovel, since he’s using the large one, swinging it so close to your head you hold up your hands and tell him you don’t want to be king of the mountain, please put it down.
Then he’ll ask how far he has to dig.
You’ll tell him that he’ll have to dig as far down as he needs to for the box to be buried, because you certainly don’t want a cardboard box with Amazon’s logo on it sticking out from the earth, and then he’ll tell you that he no longer wants to do a time capsule anymore, because he wants the Pokémon card he put in it. And he also wants to start a “Minecraft ideas” business in the front yard.
So you’ll both go back inside, where his brothers have taken out every card game you have in your house and spread them all over the floor to “be a new carpet because ours is really dirty and gross,” and the cardboard box will wait for another day, when your kid will look at it, recognize its potential, and remember that day he wanted to do a time capsule. And chances are, if he remembers he wants to do a time capsule, he’s going to want something to put in it.
This is an excerpt from Hills I’ll Probably Lie Down On, the fourth book in the Crash Test Parents series. To get access to some all-new, never-before-published humor essays in two hilarious Crash Test Parents guides, visit the Crash Test Parents Reader Library page.
(Photo by This is Now Photography.)
