Half Sweet, Half AcidHalf Sweet, Half AcidI thought I finished up with science
a long time ago. I had the distinction of being the only girl
in my tenth grade biology class who became so friendly with my
frog that I couldn't dissect it. I spent the afternoon in the
principal's office, where I was NOT persuaded to do the dastardly
deed, but finally sent back to class with a sigh, and a stage-whispered
comment about children "with artistic natures."
Artistic nothing.
I was stubborn, that's all, and constitutionally opposed to
taking the life of a small, harmless creature just so I could
see what its insides looked like. I figured if God had wanted
me to see the frog's insides, he would have made 'em that way,
inside out.
But He didn't so I didn't.
Then there was the disaster with my sixth grade science project, the first time science and I ever met face-to-face. I know modern fourth graders not only have to memorize Einstein's Theory of Relativity and understand it; they also must be able to apply it in a practical sense to everyday life and gang warfare. But way back then, science was thought to be too difficult a subject for mere elementary students, so my debut science project in sixth grade was a very big deal.
I labored for two months trying to grow crystals in a jar, and finally got a few little bits of something that vaguely resembled rock salt. I knew it wasn't much, but as I was indeed artistic, I whipped out a gorgeous illustrated board, explaining in great detail exactly why I thought my project had failed. It was one of the finest pieces of malarkey ever produced by a school-age child.
The morning I was to turn in the project, I laid it carefully on the den floor, making sure to first escort the family dog outside, as she had an unfortunate tendency to chew up anything that hadn't moved within the last ten seconds.
I went to cook breakfast and noticed my baby brother had crawled into the den. For some reason, this did not set off warning sirens in my head, probably because I was basking in the glow of accomplishment that accompanied the completion of something as major as a science project. My brother, like most babies, had an unerring sense of exactly where he could crawl to produce the most damage in the shortest time with the least effort. This morning was to prove no exception, so he crawled directly to my science project and sat down upon it. Then I heard the all-too-familiar intestinal rumbling, screamed "Oh no!" and turned from the stove to rush to the rescue.
But it was too late. Where seconds before there had been a pristine white board covered with bullsh_ _, now there was a not-so-pristine, sort of yellow-colored board covered with baby-sh_ _.
Yes, he had done it. My brother, in the ultimate act of sibling betrayal, had pooped upon my science project, adding an odor to the effort that did nothing to enhance my chances of winning a ribbon at the Science Fair. And of course, it was one of those messy yellow baby diapers that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men everywhere, the kind that sort of oozes like hot lava over everything in its path.
So why did my science project have to be in this particular
path? The answer to that question could form the basis for an
entire other science project, except I don't think they have a
"metaphysical" category in science fairs yet. And they
certainly didn't have one back then. I proceeded to clean up the
mess as best I could, but there was no getting around those yellow
stains; white-out had not yet been invented. Nor was there any
time to start over. I was going to be late to school as it was.
Can you imagine my mortification as I tried to whisper to my science
teacher what had happened?
"Your brother did WHAT on your science project?" she
shrieked.
And for anyone who might not have heard her, the proof explicit
of the humiliating disaster was hanging in the air, the unmistakable
stench of "eau d-bébé" that even the uninitiated
can recognize at first whiff. It wasn't long before the whole
classroom erupted in laughter, and by lunch time, the entire school
knew the story. I crawled through the cafeteria line with my face
buried deep in my lasagna, hoping the red tomato sauce would camouflauge
the red in my cheeks, but it did me no good. "Hey, Pat!"
my former friends yelled out. "What happened? Did your ma
run out of clean diapers?"
Ha, ha.
Despite the tragedy, the project did win an honorable mention at the Science Fair that weekend, probably a sympathy prize. But I didn't care why I had won. I clutched that little white ribbon to my chest with fierce pride. It was my redemption, my badge of honor, of survival. After all, if an almost teen-age girl can make it through her baby brother pooping on her completed science project the morning it is due, she can survive anything. Anything that is, except being a middle-aged woman whose teen-age daughter has spent the last eight weeks buried in her particular science project. As I said when I started this, I thought I was through with science. But science just won't leave me alone.
I held her hand while she tried resource after resource to
get her raw data. I drove her to interviews with doctors, to stores
to buy a board and stick-on letters and tape, to the mall to take
pictures.
She drove me crazy.
I fixed midnight cups of hot chocolate, and tucked her in with a kiss when she fell asleep, exhausted, surrounded by books and papers on her coverlet. It was finally over last week, and she did a really fine job. But the best part is, we managed to get the whole thing to her school before anyone or anything had a chance to poop on it.