Science Fair

The beginning of Lent happened to fall around the time that science fair projects are due, so instead of being prayerful and reposed, a meek and mild Mary, I have been a screaming meanie of late. Envision me with flames jumping out of my scalp, eyes blazing laser beams, a whip snapping at my side – and throw in spandexed legs ending in stilettos to complete the image of how projects of this nature affect me.


The problem is that I know ¾ of the parents will do the poster board for their children. However, I do not like to cut and paste. My boys don’t enjoy it much either. I refuse to spend large amounts of cash for decorative borders and fancy stickers that will end up in the trash. It pains me enough to have to purchase these trifold boards, which, try as we may to remove the last bits of glue and paper after the projects are returned, can never really be reused. And it’s supposedly the kids’ projects anyway, not a competition to see whose parents are most creative.


Ask me why I stress about these things, but I can’t answer. Perhaps because I was scarred by that C I received on my first science fair project way back when science fairs first came into style. Perhaps because my kids come home grouchy and disappointed because they never win even honorable mention in these kinds of things. They want so badly to do well. And yet I can’t get them to channel that desire for perfection into actual practice for perfection. If you want to do well, you have to do the work, I say, because I refuse to do the work for you. I will groan and moan when you say you are finished and your project looks sloppy enough even for my lax standards. I will share that sinking feeling when you see your classmates’ nicely manicured boards come into class free from the bendy marks left from where your little brother danced on your board or you sister threw her backpack on it. I don’t care if you don’t win.

I just hope you don’t get a C.


But this was not supposed to be a post about science fairs; it was supposed to be about my lack of growth in Maryism during this Lent. Maybe I’ll get around to that tomorrow. My husband also tactfully suggested on the phone the other night that I should give up worrying. Now that would be a sacrifice.