In the springtime, I utter this silent prayer:
“Please, Lord, help me survive the Science Fair.”
The tri-fold boards, the complaining, the multiple trips for
supplies
Make moms like me want to gouge out our own eyes
Each year, a black cloud hovers over Spring Break
Will there be logs to compile? Tables and graphs to make?
The work itself doesn’t get my spirits flagging
It’s the countless fresh hours devoted to nagging
“Did you take any notes today?” “Did you water your plants?”
My questions surpass typical homework rants
I carp about hypotheses, about cause and effect
Until my will to live is practically wrecked
It’s not that my children can’t be self-directed
They’re just a tad unclear on what is expected
They believe themselves possessed of magic powers
Allowing completion of three-week projects in under 24 hours
I know that it’s wrong to view this as my burden
That my kids’ self-sufficiency is what I risk hurtin’
That would be true if the playing field were a level one,
folks
But as the California Mission projects taught me, now’s no
time for jokes
Yes dearies, it was back when my kids were in the fourth
grade
That’s when I learned how modern parental dues get paid
I could stand idly by, arms crossed, teaching my kids a
lesson
But I’m too weak, I guess, that’s what I am confessin’
Those precise toothpick crosses, those papier-mâché adobes?
Yup—erected by parents with Architecture degrees!
By the time I saw the tenth hand-painted, thimble-sized monk
I knew how low we as “supportive parents” had sunk
So when my 6th grader casually mentioned robotics
I tried steering him toward something a bit less exotic
That backfired—he’s researching solutions to the Rubik’s Cube
Which means any moment, I’ll be exposed as a dithering boob
Those mission projects, in retrospect? Positively quaint!
They required light reading and some tempera paint
You’re on your own now, kiddo, but we’ll still be buddies.
Sorry—my B.A.’s in American Studies.
