Research Reports

In our family, a school project is a joint effort which includes parents, older siblings, sometimes grandparents, and on rare occasions, the student himself. We are currently involved in a research report on the Ringling brothers. According to my findings, there were seven of them. August, Otto, John….They led a fascinating life and I am grateful to my son, that from a list of  boring illustrious historical figures like George Washington  and Thomas Edison, he selected the more obscure, but way cooler Ringling brothers.

With a bit of a research, and some creativity, we were able to put together a fairly presentable work of art. Unfortunately, for me, what I deemed as presentable, the teacher did not, and my son came home relaying the message that the project “needed more information”. As a mother, I naturally interpreted the teacher’s benign comment as a personal affront to my intelligence. I had done hours of research online, simplified my findings to a second grade level, and then together with my son, created an eye catching display board. But being the aspiring supermom that I am, I dutifully went back to my computer, googled “Ringling” once again and printed out reams of information on all thing circus related.

At this point I was just wanted this project over and done with. I was so fed up with the Ringlings, and the plethora of circus photos spread out on our dining room table was making me dizzy. Ignoring my son’s plaintive cries of “Mommy, it feels like you’re doing the whole project for me,” I sat there gluing and cutting furiously. Occasionally, I graciously allowed him to help, and within a relatively short time, the project was ready to be turned in once again, hopefully this time to the teacher’s satisfaction.

In addition to this second grade research project, my seventh grader had a science fair project she was working on. My refrigerator contained various plastic cups of beverages and teeth. Sunday had me shuttling my daughter and her partner from Michael’s to AC Moore in search of red and white gingham paper, and spray paint to match their color scheme. I had planned to just leave them at the store, run a quick errand, and then pick them up. Well, apparently, it is illegal in the state of New Jersey to sell spray paint to anyone under the age of eighteen.

As the due date of the science fair project drew near, tensions in our home mounted. I had to guard the refrigerator vigilantly, so that no curious little hands would touch the cups that contained the decomposing teeth, or even worse drink the Powerade, orange juice or milk that were rotting in the cups along with the teeth. Every morning had me sweeping up scraps of cut paper from the kitchen floor, and scraping glue off the table.

I was confident in my independent daughter and her partner’s abilities, and I was certain that they could do the bulk of this project on their own. Although my assumption was basically correct, I had failed to take into account their lack of time management skills. While my daughter consistently reassured me that the project was under control, the night before the science fair had all of us up until after midnight.

First, they managed to lose all of their information on the computer, and at ten pm, they began retyping everything. There was a fair amount of drama involved, as well as plenty of tears, but they managed to retype it all in record time. Once that catastrophe had been resolved, they couldn’t transfer the pictures from the ipod to the computer. My kindhearted husband worked with them until midnight, while I looked on, breathing into a paper bag.

While I was suffering from the anxiety of it all, my daughter and her friend remained unruffled, and eventually sent me off to bed, while they put the finishing touches on their display board. I dozed fitfully, dreaming repeatedly of the girls showing up at the science fair with their project half done.

I’m proud to relay that the project turned out beautifully, and the evening of the science fair had everyone flocking to their project to check out the rotten teeth. My daughter and her friend stood there deliriously exhausted, accepting accolades for a job well done. When the teacher related to me how impressed she was with their work, I was able to smile broadly and say in all honesty that they had done it completely on their own.