The Science Fair

When you become a parent and look lovingly into the teeny little face of your babe, look deeper.  Be aware.  This little light of your life will some day go to school and will have desires to participate in the science fair.  Year after painful year.  Be aware.  Beware.  And be very afraid.
I hate science fairs.  If you have seen Disney's "Meet the Robinsons" it's not like that, until the part where Lewis' project gets a loose screw, blows up, and angers all of the adults.  I'll walk you through the torture, step by walking across broken glass step.
1.  Each child gets their crisp copy of the invitation to join the frivolity of the Science Fair the beginning of March.  A heavenly beam of light shines down.  A harp begins to play.  The child gets a beatific look on her face as she imagines the glories she is about to create.
2.  She tells her parents.  Begs her parents.  Promises her parents.  Parents relent.  Surely our memories are faulty.  It's really not all that bad.
3.  It's now 3 days before the science fair in the middle of April.  Nothing has been done.  The tri-fold cardboard displays have sold out in all of the nearby stores.  Knowing that they now have a product as precious as gold or unleaded regular gasoline, those crafty store managers begin hiking the prices.  What the child could have gotten from the school for $2 is now $7.99 at Office Depot and at least 1/3 again as big.  This means more space to fill.  In a house that's a good thing.  It's not when there is a project due in three days.  Feel free to panic.  But please do not start the project yet.  That's simply not the way it's done.
4.  It's the day before the science fair.  A phone call tells you what you secretly dreaded all along.  Another daughter has also entered the fair.  "Nooooooo!" you wail.  To no avail.  She cries.  At least she finally stops crying when you tell her that the carnations in the colored water project will take too long, but you've found another awesome thing to do.  It involves lamp oil.  You should have just known this was a bad idea, but by now you are desperate. 
5.  It's 11 pm the night before the science fair.  Yes, it's the same day as number 4, but this has been a long day.  The first daughter's project and boards are finally complete.  You knew she was exhausted when you said something about her astounding farting abilities and she started to cry instead of laughing at her superb skills in the flatulence arts.
6.  You finally found the cheap tri fold displays at Target in Kent.  Well.  You hope it's cheap.  You bought a lot of summer shoes for kids, too, so it could have cost $10 and you wouldn't know.  You come home and have 45 minutes to whip up an astounding board describing liquid density.
7.  Whew!  Finally!  We are at the school.  The projects are set up.  Then the crowds descend.  Chaos ensues.  Children wander off and go missing.  Children are sad when they don't win anything from the raffle.  Mom starts hearing the far off whine of a thousand tiny little loggers chopping down an entire 400 acre section of the Brazilian rain forest.  Only it's not loggers.  It's her nerves.  Zinnnggg-na-na-na-ning!

Every year I say I will not be sucked into this madness.  Every year!  Dan helps the kids with their projects (a fact that goes far in explaining why everything is so last minute).  I did do a special intercessory project with Sophie this year.  It seemed easy enough.  I generally get rooked into helping when I see what they are going to do to their display boards.  For crying out loud!  It looks like a 4th grader and her dad made this!  No, no, no.  That simply won't do.  Except, as I walked around the madness tonight, the cutest boards were obviously made by the kids.  I renewed my vow.  We are never doing a science fair again!  Then Alison looked up at her dad with big blue eyes and said, "Dad.  Plllleeeeaaasseee can I do the science fair next year?" 
Well, she does have a good idea for a project.
On the way home from the dentist today, she wanted to know if she let the helium out of her balloon, if the suburban would float.  I told her no.  She is convinced that there is an amount (perhaps if everyone in our family had a balloon in the suburban?) where lift off will be possible.  Future scientist?  I should have known the minute her blurry blue eyes met mine in the hospital.