Science Fair Non-Project

Science fairs. I don’t want to go there, but for the sake of my mental health, permit me to rant for a moment. First of all, I grew up in Washington and did not participate in a single science fair when I was growing up. Not one. Nada. Am I clear on this point? They were extra curricular, extra credit activities. I didn’t need extra credit and wasn’t interested enough in science to do anything in that subject outside of school. I was a bookworm, I read outside of school. And wrote. Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?

Anyway, fast forward to high school, I read sci-fi, but I’m still not really into science per se. In fact, I took chemistry and physics just so I wouldn’t have to take biology because I couldn’t get an A in the class unless I did a bug collection and there was no way in hell I was doing a bug collection. That was my attitude toward science. Moving on to college, I graduated in biology. But I still didn’t do a bug collection! Okay, that’s not true, I helped The Girl with hers. Next year, I’ll help The Boy with his.

The kids went to a charter school and I have a standing invitation from the science teacher to help when the ninth graders do dissections. Yay! (This is a person who writes romance . . .) This year I’m one of the science fair judges. As of the time I’m writing this, not posting it, my son has still not completed his science fair project. It’s due tomorrow. Hmm. I’m not judging his grade/category – they’ll figure that out somehow. Just as well, I’d flunk the little brat because I know he’s going to fake his data.

So, I never did the science fair thing as a kid, but I did it with my kids from third through eighth grade, twice. Last week, my extended family was at the in-law’s house gathered for something festive and my young nephew was complaining about his science fair project. Like my son, it was due and he hadn’t done it yet.

“Really? What’s your project?” I asked with interest. This kid was only interested in football, so to see him doing anything academic had me intrigued.

“Which paper towel is the best.”

I frowned. “That’s not a science fair project, that’s product comparison.”

“I’m only in sixth grade.”

I let it drop. My kids weren’t permitted to do product comparison or a research project in third grade (school rules, not mine) but maybe that’s because they went to a charter school and had higher standards. I almost had a chat with my sister-in-law about her youngest being robbed of a valuable learning opportunity, but decided against it. She already doesn’t like me, didn’t go to college, cares more about the name brand of her hoodie than has mistrust of the motivation of the school in question, so I let it drop. Besides, I was tired and wanted to go home. The Boy had some data to fake.

The Scientific Method

We had three birthdays in rapid succession giving us a thirteen-year-old boy, fifteen year old girl, and one year old cat. Now, you'd think the thirteen-year-old boy would concern me, but it’s the other two I'm writing about today. Hubby and I have many theories involving the idiot cat, which I’ll undoubtedly delve into at some point. We have all the usual concerns involving the girl too. One concern her interest in the scientific method.

Now most adults may be thinking “What kind of mother are you to discourage that kind of academic exploration?” And many parents out there are nodding knowingly and thinking “Yeah, got it, no more needs to be said.” I’ll say it anyway.

They say you can't put frogs in boiling water because they'll hop out. You have to put them in cold water and slowly bring it to a boil. I am not going to tell you how I know this isn't true. Anyway, The Girl started with this premise, put the cat in my bathroom sink with an open drain, and Cat snuggled in. So far, this is pretty normal. The Girl turned on the faucet: a nice, alluring, playful drip. The result is a happy cat. Bat, bat, bat at the drip, lick paw, bat.

Now the ‘science’ begins. The Girl closed the drain. Cat continued to bat at the drip, bat, bat. The sink began to fill. Lick paw, bat, bat. Cat’s fur was starting to get wet, not just her paw now. Bat, bat, bat, lick. Hmm . . . Lick paw, her paw's dry. Hmm . . . Cat's confused. The sink's filling, The Girl’s laughing. Bat, bat, bat, lick, still wet.

Cat shifts in her sink and everything becomes clear to her. You might say it 'sinks in.' She stares at the sink now almost half-full of water, something that wasn't there when she climbed in. Like most self respecting cats, she decided it was time to leave. That sounds simpler than it was. The funny thing about a cat jumping out of a sink with wet paws - it's slippery.

The end result of The Girl’s experiment? Hubby will be the one Cat will blame, for no reason other than he lives here.