Science (Un)Fair

I hated science fairs when I was in school. Nothing about it appealed to me. The coming up with an original idea. The experimentation. The laws of nature to support it. Even the format…hypothesis, research, experiment, findings, conclusion. Nothing that I ever attempted was successful, or rather, nothing I thought would happen did. So I cheated. I didn’t pay some poindexter to do it for me. Instead, I fudged my results and invented data. Sometimes I was successful in my charade, other times I just got by. One year I just made up the whole thing, the night before it was due. I faked my graphs, concocted measurements, and supported it all with three house plants of different ages. And once, I decided to see if I could get away with not doing it at all, as if it would go unnoticed that I never turned in a project. It did not go unnoticed, but I did find out that I was able to get a good grade, a B, even if I did not turn in the assignment. It was my most successful science fair experiment ever. Science was the first class in which I earned less than an A. It was not my friend, and it still isn’t. In fact, it seems to have exacted its revenge on me, as most things do, through my children.

This week is the science fair in my daughters’ class. I call it science fair, but their teacher calls it “Invention Convention,” which I think is what middle schoolers do in an effort to boost their interest in an engineering career. At our school, the first and second graders present a science project, while the third graders are required to invent something. The fair takes place outside, so the students cannot use electricity, and they have to understand the scientific concepts behind their invention. They also have to promise to adhere to safety practices, and they have to research their creation to ensure that their invention does not currently exist. Did I mention they were in the third grade?

S, who is in the first grade, had it easy. We just looked around the kitchen and came up with the brilliant idea to grow mold on some different kinds of food. Sounds simple enough, grab some food, slap it in a few Ziplocs, and see how it looks at the end of the week. A few Google searches on mold, a tri fold poster board, and we can call it a week. But it is so much more complicated than that. First, we had to pick foods that she won’t be disgusted by at the end of the week and thus never eat them again. She opted for bread, cheese, and an apple. Well, she wanted to do a strawberry, but I encouraged the apple because she eats strawberries, not apples. I figured why ruin more food choices from her already limited repertoire? We even went with a cheese she doesn’t like, for the same reason. And a slice of bread, innocent enough. We bagged them. We observed them every day. She wrote notes, I took pictures. We waited for something to happen. Day 1, 2, 3, 4. Nothing. A little brown on the apple, but nothing like over the course of dinnertime. So the science hater in me tried to intervene. I opened the bags. I sat them in the sunlight. I brought them upstairs when I showered, hoping the moist air would spark some growth S could observe and present. But no dice. Nothing happened. The bread looks fresh from the bakery. The apple is still golden delicious. The cheese is a little ripe, but not furry or discolored. What kind of boring failed experiment is that? It’s a good thing she doesn’t get grades yet. The only real experiment we conducted all week was keeping the cats from chewing through the bags. And the only conclusion I drew, besides I still hate science, is that winter is a bad time to try to grow mold.

But as piss poor of a scientist I am, I am an even worse engineer. E’s project began with a bunch of brain storming in the car, trying to think of anything she could invent that we could actually make. She is 9, after all, and sometimes doesn’t understand that what you want to make might not happen without a team of engineers and a manufacturing facility. We did, after all, want her work to look like, if not actually be, her own, as opposed to the rest of the class, which was making things like solar powered robots that looked like cat toys, and clearly had lots of parent intervention. She decided on a basketball that would be used for dribbling practice, since she is currently playing on a team and is the only novice member of her team who doesn’t have much in the way of skills. She called it “dribble ball,” and it was based on a paddleball, but without the paddle. The basketball was to have a hole drilled into it, into which was inserted a length of elastic. The other end of the elastic would have a loop for your wrist. You slip the look around your wrist, attempt to dribble, and when your attempt fails, the ball is still there instead of flying down the driveway into oncoming traffic. Problem solved!

Except for one thing. When you drill a hole in a basketball and insert a length of elastic into that hole , it no longer is a firm air tight basketball. Instead, it looks more like a used douche bag, circa 1963. We tried a tire repair kit, a vinyl patch, some gorilla glue, and some sort of substance from my husband’s dental practice. Nothing will plug that fucker up. So her clever invention, which she will have to demonstrate to four classes of preschoolers and some super-devoted parents, is about as successful as her sister’s super mold resistant bread slice. We sent her to school with a bike pump and explicit instructions not to let anyone test out the dribble ball.

Honestly, I don’t care that it didn’t work, that it looked like it was made by Wayne Szalinski, that it isn’t a home fission kit or an engineering feat. All I care about is that the science fair is over for another year. Now the cats can go back to their favorite pastime of ripping open any unattended snack bags on the counter, and my kitchen no longer looks like the Mutter museum. I wonder if they have a douche bag exhibit there. Perhaps I can send them our home version for their collection.

Yo! Yo! Yo! Nightmarz in the House!

SCENE:

5:30 A.M. Wednesday. Darkened upstairs. I awake to the sound a child calling out "Mommy!. I stand in the hall, unable to discern which child it is in my dazed state. I hear it again, "Mommy!" It is S.

I enter S's room. It is dark except for her disco night light, which changes color every 10 seconds. S is in bed, sitting up and agitated. Beside her in the bed are two stuffed monkeys wearing pajamas.

S: Mommy, I had a bad dream!

Me: You're okay. What about?

S: Sorry I woke you."

Me: Me too. Tell me about your dream.

S: Are armadillios real?

(Armadillio is pronounced armadilly-o. I stifle all laughter.)

Me: Excuse me?

S: Armadillios. Are they real?

Me: Don't you mean armadillos?

S: No, this was an armadillio. Like a crab. At the beach. Are they real?

Me: Um, no. What happened exactly?

S: We were on the beach looking for crabs and shells and an armadillio walked up to me on his back legs and picked me up and cut me with his tail.

Me: He had a sharp tail?

S: Yes, and he picked me up and cut me with it.

Me: That sounds scary.

S:It was. (Begins to cry softly.)

END SCENE

I crawl into bed with her, under the covers. She breathes her morning stink breath in my face and cries tenderly. I put my arm around her. I close my eyes. I see a human sized armadillo, wearing what looks like a horseshoe crab on its back, holding S and trying to stab at her with a hinged stiff tail. I stifle more laughter. I don't know where she came up with this one. We did see an armadillo crawl out of a bush when we were in Florida in November, but those things are more odd than threatening. And small. Certainly not large enough to carry around a tall seven year old like his child bride. It isn't weirder than any of my dreams. But no less amusing.

When I was about her age, I too dreamt of armadillos. Only mine weren't bipeds. Mine were Asian and had gemstones for teeth, and I called them Chinese markadillos. But they didn't have sharp tails nor did they go around on the beach grabbing children and carrying them before cutting them. Quite frankly, I don't remember what mine did, other than haunt my dreams. I wonder if there is a latent armadillo nightmare gene.

For S on Her Birthday

Seven years ago, my S was born. She came into this world much in the same way she lives every day, on her terms. She didn’t wait for her due date; she just came when she was ready to be born, three weeks before we expected her. The day of her birth, she was on her own schedule. Water broke at 4 am, at the hospital at 5:30 am, C-section delivery at 7:37am. We had no bag packed and ready, no plan of who would stay with her big sister, and the next thing we knew, she was here.

Since that day, life with S has been a lot of things, but never dull. She was a sweet and cuddly baby who loved her naps and nursing. She decided very early that bottles were not for her, that only the original milk source would do. When it was time to switch to cow’s milk, she would have none of it. We made do with enriched orange juice and chocolate syrup, since the only milk she was interested in was no longer available to her.

Crawling and walking were much the same way. She wasn’t interested. Crawling wasn’t worth it. If she couldn’t reach something, oh well, she would make do without it. If she did need something, she would cry until one of us would get it for her. Problem solved, no need for her to move. Crawling never did happen. Walking did not begin until 15 ½ months. When she realized how mobility brought freedom, she decided to have as much of both as she could demand. The sweet baby she had been morphed into a pint sized terrorist. Those toddler years were a blur of negotiations, tantrums, offerings, rejections, and occasional truces, but rarely compromises. Well, not on her part. They were difficult years for me, ones when I counted the hours until bedtime, when I abandoned my dislike of spanking, when I became a short order cook and household servant. I lost myself in all that frustration and guilt, and could not understand how thirty pounds of cuteness could make me feel more like a failure than anything else in my life.

And before I knew it, S turned five. Suddenly, she relented. She realized my will had been broken, that somehow she had won. The conflict faded away, and the sweetness that disappeared along with the rolls of baby fat and drool returned, offering a sense of hope and a big sigh of relief. She now happily did chores, wiping counters, sweeping crumbs from the table to the floor, making her bed, sorting the recycling. She enjoyed piano theory and asked for more. She could brush her own teeth and wipe her own ass, when she felt like it. She was growing up, and the combination of her strong personality and deep empathy made her someone I wanted to know.

Over the past two years, she has moved forward, stepped back, and progressed once more. She is concrete in how she deals with tragedy. She giggles like the sound of tiny glass bells tinkling. She is funny, smart, gross, prissy, loving, and hateful all at the same time. She wants to smack your butt and hold your hand. She rages and loves with the same fierceness. She will do what you want her to do, but more as a favor to you, and you cannot contain her.

Her best friend is her big sister E, although they both would deny it if asked. They are opposites in many ways. E was born an old soul, full of wisdom and worry beyond her years, like this is not her first time around. Sarah is a clean slate, a sponge, full of potential and desire, ready to try and do and be. E has remorse, and S has rancor, but somehow they compliment each other. They are the kind of sisters I didn’t know I had until I was grown.

I look at my baby child on this, the first day of her seventh year, at her long legs and gap toothed grin and smiling eyes and sharp tongue, and I am lucky to be her custodian. She has much to teach me, as much as I do her. We will learn from each other. We will laugh and cry and be better people because she is my child and I her mother. I wonder what lessons she has for me this year.

Just Trying to Get a Nut?

Awwww. Isn't that cute? Look at those big beautiful eyes, that bushy tail? See how he is just sitting there, waiting for me to take his picture, resting on the tree trunk. How can you not love him? He looks like he could talk to you in an adorable squeaky voice, like Barry White sucking on a helium balloon. I don't know what he would say to me, but I know what I want to say to him.

Eat hot death, you furry gray little motherfucker! I fucking hate you and your constant nut collecting. You wake me up every goddamn morning, skittering around in the gutter on the wall behind my headboard. If I could electrify every little acorn in that gutter, I would, you backyard asswipe. Did I mention that not only do you wake me up, but you also wake up my daughter, since her bed is against the same wall? And you disturb the cats too. They stare up at that wall like we are living "Poltergeist." It's creepy, two black cats staring at a wall with nothing on it. You wake up to that shit.

It's not just the mornings either, you little forest prick. You are constantly scurrying around, getting your bubonic plague germy feet all over my lounge chairs and fancy porch furniture. I don't care if it did come from Target, I don't want your ass sitting on it. You and your little friends, the nervous chipmunks, are always on my porch. You use it more than my family does. Sitting out there, acorns in mouth, staring in the windows.

That's what bothers me the most about you, you backyard pimp coat rat. Your continuous peeping in my windows. You are driving the cats crazy, the way you climb right up on the window ledge by the kitchen, you on one side of the glass, the cats on the other. You know how much they want to eat you. Your staring annoys us as much as the cats. We can't enjoy a meal without you looking at us with your glassy street urchin eyes. It's not like you even like paninis! Those are some big nuts you have there, squirrel.

I am onto you, you oak killer. You are trying to figure out how to get us out of the big house so you can move in your nuts and your squirrel babies and have your chipmunk friends over for wild swinging parties. I even caught one of your homies trying to jimmie open my sky light. It sounded like he had a tiny little jackhammer on it, the way he was going at it. You are fucking up my sleep, my gutters, and my roof. My nerves are shot.

You think you are so smart, don't you? You know I can't poison you and your rogue band of rodents. What if a neighbor's pet ate your toxic ass and died? The last thing I need is an appearance on "Judge Judy" over some rich dude's Himalayan that croaked after sneaking out and eating some strange.

But I have news for you, you nut loving fur pie. I killed one of your buddies the other day leaving the neighborhood. Yeah, that's right. I hit him with my big ass Volvo SUV. I thought for sure he was smart enough to run across the road, but he had his mouth full of acorn, and you know how you squirrels get about your nuts. Plus, everyone knows you aren't smart enough to cross the road, which is why every suburban neighborhood looks like the killing fields. I slowed down, but he still became a speed bump. And I didn't cry either. So take that, you nut cruncher. Your stupid ass might be next. Unless you stay out of my gutters, and stop peeping at me with those eyes, in which case I will learn to live with you, a harmonious balance of nature and civilization.

But I still hate you.

Family Friendly Drive Bys

My husband told me to read the “Baldo” comic strip yesterday when I got home. I don’t generally read “Baldo” since I do not have a Hispanic/Latino teenage boy in my home, nor a crazy old aunt who cures everyone’s illness with organ meat soup. We do not speak Spanish at home, or anywhere for that matter, and no one I know is into low riders. But what the hell, I read it. So imagine my surprise when I saw my own children in that comic strip. Here it is for reference:

My two daughters are the queen and princess of Punch Buggy, as we call it in our car. They start the minute we back out of the driveway, scanning the neighbor’s driveways, screaming Punch Buggy and slugging one another. It doesn’t matter if it is the same neighbor’s bug parked in the same spot that we pass at least once a day. My girls still scream Punch Buggy! and then cuff each other. They occasionally try to amend or create new rules. They prefer to not add the common place “Don’t punch back”, as I have explained to them that being the first to punch is the goal, and punching back tarnishes the spirit of the game. Momma didn’t raise no poor punch buggy sports. They also occasionally compromise on the broken down beetles from the 1960’s, swearing to not punch each other since the car cannot be moved from its weedy patch of yard. But usually my youngest daughter forgets and punches her sister anyway. It does seem that every time we get in the car there is a new list of riders, exceptions, and codicils to consider and then conveniently forget as soon as the first beetle drives by.

My 6 year old is not quite adept at identifying Volkswagens, so she occasionally will punch for the wrong type of car, which has led to a whole new list of backseat shenanigans. She created PT Poke, which in my mind happens all too often, as there are many more PT Cruisers on the road than Volkswagen Bugs. Why exactly is Chevrolet failing? They seem to sell plenty of those. Anyway, PT Punch is obviously the same as Punch Buggy, only it offers a more frequent reason to hit. Then my oldest daughter came up with Mack Attack, which does not involve a double cheeseburger with tiny minced onions or crappy fake Thousand Island dressing. Rather, when one spots a Mack truck, one is to smack the crap out of their backseat companion. They also scream out Jeep Beep, although I am not sure what kind of bodily harm is caused, although it might be a nose tweak. My favorite is the Mini Chinny, which involves slapping your opponent on the chin whenever a Mini Cooper is spotted first. They are constantly trying to think of new and unique ways to justify beating up each other. One day, we passed a cherry picker, which led to the rarely used Cherry Picker Eye Gouge. Okay, I made that one up. And no one is allowed to do it.

Punch Buggy is more than just a diversion for the daily commute to school. It is a borderline obsession. Deep conversations about big stuff like suicide and how to get in juvenile detention centers are often preempted by vehicle sightings and subsequent screams and smacks. Even worse is when we don’t sight anything. My 9 year old becomes obsessed, practically counting cars until a Mini or Volkswagen appears. I remember seeing Tetris shapes in my sleep, and I bet she is doing the same thing, seeing those cute little rounded cars everywhere she looks. I find myself constantly scanning when I am alone in the car, and I have been known to interrupt another unsafe car pastime, talking on my cell phone, to shout “Punch buggy!” in a friend’s ear.
I don’t know when it will end, or if they will outgrow it. I imagine it will go the way of general interaction. At some point, they will each have their ears stuffed with iPod buds, their fingers busily texting their friends, and will no longer remember that we all are in the car together. Until then, I have to consider “Punch Buggy” as a substitute for quality time. It’s not like my kids are really hitting each other if it’s part of a game.