By Esther C. Baird
First published in the Tri Town Transcript Apr 12, 2019
It was a sunny, warm, weekend day. Naturally, there was still snow on the ground, but there were also crocuses out at long last. It was a day to relax and take a deep breath of lovely, spring air.
Except do you know where I was? Here’s a hint: my air smelled like glue and sharpies.
Parents, you know the drill: your teenager is given a research project. They learn the budding skills of footnoting, bibliographies, non-wikipedia based research and careful writing. They prepare a presentation, perhaps with computer slides or handouts, and practice their speech.
And then things come to a grinding halt. Why? Three words: accompanying art project.
In plain english (which perhaps is the very subject for which they are being asked to create such an item), they have to make something tangible, perhaps artistic, at the very minimum representative, to go along with their research paper, speech and handouts. This despite the fact that, at least at my daughter’s school, there are no classes in carving, welding, metal working, plastic molding or the like.
I say this in the nicest way possible, but spare me this ridiculous black hole of time and energy. Do not lecture me about procrastination or helicopter parenting or letting kids do their own work. My daughter was a full week ahead of her own, already Type A, schedule. Nor was I helicoptering, though I would have gladly done so, if somebody gave me one to fly. Because what I was doing was driving her to Michaels, since she is only 14 years old.
All those great ideas about letting kids figure it out themselves — who do you think drives them when they need their body weight in green floral arrangement foam, which is more easily manipulated that traditional white styrofoam. Ask me how I know that, go ahead, I dare you.
Should they teach themselves to hitchhike to Michaels? Is that part of the hands-on learning experience?
Not long ago, this teen of ours needed to make a version of the ancient water basin found in the tabernacle of the Israelites when they were wandering in the desert in the Biblical book of Exodus.
You may recall that I published my first book this past Fall, and in case you didn’t devour every single page of it, I actually wrote six chapters on the tabernacle of the Israelites. I love this topic. I love it more than most people I’d hazard to guess.
But even I didn’t try to recreate the ancient basin. And yet, my daughter had to. Since we couldn’t forge metal, we went to Michaels to find styrofoam in the approximate shape of a bowl and then hacked at it with a butcher knife until it more closely resembled one that accidentally had a run-in with a wood chipper.
I’m here to tell you I almost lost my left arm trying to simply cut a wedge of styrofoam for a cell nucleus project that our middle school aged daughter had to create.
Do you know how many styrofoam cell nuclei exist on this planet? Google it. Every parent, everywhere, across all time, since the cell was identified, has endured this project. Can’t we create a black market for these? I’ll trade you my daughter’s cell nucleus for your son’s popsicle stick model of the Mayflower. We’d learn about trade, possibly some basic economics, and no one would lose an arm or, more importantly, their weekend.
Which brings me to my opening question. By now the answer is obvious, on that lovely, early spring day, I was, again, at Michaels. This time in support of my daughter’s accompanying art piece for her history project on Vikings.
I’m sure it will be great. Wracking up a bill in balsam wood, paint and mounting plates, while also enduring the angst of a teenager who is modge podging antique maps of Iceland, when, unbeknownst to anyone, it turns out modge podge makes balsam wood spontaneously snap into pieces, was actually a wonderful mother-daughter bonding experience every single night of this last week.
Boy, I hope I get to do it again.
Oh wait, I will when our youngest has her turn to do this project. Unless we unite to create our black market, and then perhaps we can all enjoy our weekends in the sunshine.