Cleaning up after a mad scientist

In ancient Greek mythology Prometheus looked out at the plight of humans and felt sorry for the pitiful creatures, who were living in darkness and despair. 

The Titan defied the orders of the gods living high above the world on Mount Olympus, most notably their ruler Zeus, and stole fire from their hallowed abode and presented it to the people living in a savage, cruel world. This gift represents light, both literally and figuratively, and the age of reason began. Prometheus, who in some legends creates humans by fashioning them from clay, is also credited for introducing science and mathematics to the world. It was the beginning of civilized society. 

For his trouble, Prometheus was cursed to have his liver eaten by an eagle – every single day. In his anger Zeus bound the benefactor of mankind to a massive boulder, where he was attacked by the raptor, the animal representation of the angry deity. Each day his liver would regrow, and his tormentor would return to feast on the meaty innards. 

This myth very much influenced the classic horror tale “Frankenstein” by Mary Shelley. Most adaptations of the story focus on the monster, but the story is actually about the titular character Victor Frankenstein, a young student of science who stumbles upon a way to grant life to inanimate objects. He pieces together a humanoid form with scrap remains and creates a living being endowed with not only breath but logic and reason. Instead of further developing the creature into a civilized being though, Frankenstein realizes the folly of his actions and flees from his creation. This sets off an unfortunate chain of events that leads to a lot of misery and death. 

Like Prometheus’ daily devoured organ, Frankenstein’s loved ones are slowly taken from him, murdered by the monster who only longs for the attention and aid of its creator, along with any hope of happiness and his very sanity. To oversimplify the moral of the story, if there is one: Stay in your lane. 

I thought about the mad scientist tendencies of Victor Frankenstein as I watched my daughter, hunched over a large mixing bowl blending various chemicals together with a spoon. She is a slime fanatic, and she is no longer satisfied with the store-bought toy goop but must concoct her own using things found around the house. Aided by recipes viewed online, almost daily she mixes soaps, powders and glue to create the perfect playtime putty. Tinctured with acrylic paint and accentuated with glitter, she goes into each experiment with glee and confidence.

Some work. Most, however, are abject failures, the only accomplishment being a mess left for cleaning. Unlike the young scientist in Shelley’s novel, or the Titan of old, she is not punished for her actions, I am. My torment comes in the form of tables sticky with a splash of wayward glue or coated with a dusting of baking soda and even a couple of drains clogged with brightly colored sludge that smells suspiciously like laundry soap. 

I could be mad, but who am I to stifle a creative genius at work? Prometheus was eventually freed from his torment, and I doubt he missed his regular visits with the eagle. I have a few years left of mess cleaning, and I’ll cherish it while I can.