Out of the Mouths of Babes (or, My Struggle With Self-Induced Nausea)

I had just pushed the cart carrying my laundry baskets through the front door when it happened. My brain had been juggling the residual thoughts of my two private practice appointments from earlier in the evening, chores that needed completing and, of course, writing ideas. Somehow I suddenly thought of the question a friend had asked me over the weekend during a conversation about college studies.

“So, do you have a favorite philosopher?” he had inquired, referring to my major.

I pictured the image of my friend and me sharing experiences from college as we stood on the Long Island shoreline, watching our boys vault over waves in the ocean. I had answered by citing existentialist thinkers and my appreciation of the search for authenticity. We discussed the weight of Sartre’s melancholy ennui and Nietzsche’s fiery contempt for conventional religion.

The image lingered for a moment before shifting quickly to the practical applications of those lines of thought. My mind began asking rapid-fire internal questions with no real answers – What are we doing here? If nothing means anything, why bother trying to achieve anything? Even if there is a God, what does all of this – the world, the universe, life in general – what does it all mean? And where did God come from in the first place?

I reflexively began trying to conceptualize what awaits people after they die, whether our actions have any true, lasting meaning and what would be left if the universe disappeared. The whats, wheres and whys began assaulting my thoughts and I recognized the familiar pain beginning in my temples and the weak feeling in my knees.

Clearly, Sartre had been on to something when he wrote Nausea.

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The next morning, my daughter woke up and wandered sleepily into the kitchen, absently sweeping her hair from her face as she looked up at me and smiled. I hoisted her onto the counter and resumed preparing breakfast next to her. She began speaking, actively processing the thoughts rushing through her young mind, the slumber fleeing from her eyes.

“Daddy, why did Forky keep jumping into the garbage?”

I’ve known for some time already that it is foolish to try to predict what will come out of a three-year-old’s mouth first thing in the morning. A question about Toy Story 4 was just as likely as any other comment.

I opened my mouth to answer but she continued before I had a chance.

“He thought he was trash,” she said, answering her own question, “but that’s silly. He wasn’t trash because he was Bonnie’s toy and we don’t throw toys in the garbage but he didn’t know he was a toy so he didn’t know he was supposed to be a toy and not in the garbage.”

I grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.

“But we don’t play with forks because they can be sharp but Forky was a toy even though Bonnie took him out of the trash,” she added.

“Interesting,” I said, clearing my throat to stifle the laughter that was fighting its way out. “So why do you think Bonnie’s parents let her keep Forky even if he started out as garbage?”

“Because Bonnie loves him,” she answered with a shrug.

I stopped stirring the eggs for a moment and glanced back at S. She was still sitting on the counter, idly running her fingers through her doll’s hair, her little legs swinging slightly in front of the cabinets below her. She didn’t seem to grasp the weight of her comment or the fact that those four words had hit me with the force of a punch to the stomach. Last night, I’d found myself unsteady and overwhelmed by the pressure of having to decide for myself what would come next, almost succumbing to the crippling pressure of ultimate freedom. Then, this morning, I was rooted to the spot in front of the stove but reeling mentally from the profundity and simplicity of my daughter’s wisdom.

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t have the answers to the questions that gave me a headache or any true evidence that our actions will carry over to some higher power. I don’t know if, when we die, we just lie down to sleep and our bodies get buried or if our souls move on to some version of the next world. I don’t know if “God” is keeping a tally of our actions for the final judgment or if we are supposed to develop our own priorities as we live each day.

John Lasseter and the rest of the Pixar staff may not have had any idea that one of their signature franchises would be used to explain the meaning of life, but I think they were aware of the underlying message of the Toy Story movies. They were just as intentional about inserting those messages as we are intended to be in our lives. The movies are about love, friendship and loyalty. They’re about analyzing the interactions between people and how those roles change over time. They’re about the realization that connection with others is the only true purpose any of us really need.