Pass that Dippity-Do, please

My friend slid in next to me at the meeting, and it was obvious she was steamed.

"My daughter just told me she has a science project due tomorrow," she whispered. "She's known about this for two weeks. She's toast."

The dreaded science project. Those words strike fear into the hearts of all parents, especially those of us who aren't as crafty as others. I remember when my sons studied the five senses in elementary school, and their homework assignment was to create a model of the eye.

I thought my first child was quite creative, using a cereal bowl to draw the eyeball and colored pencils to label the cornea, retina and nerves.

The following week, the teacher had their work on display. I was mortified to see the works of art the other "children" had accomplished. No doubt mom and dad stepped in and helped create these three-dimensional models of the human eye.

We moms who actually followed the rules and let our children create the project, huddled together and decided from that moment on, we'd get a bit more involved so our child's project didn't look like something created by Jethro on "The Beverly Hillbillies."

With my second child, when the human eyeball project came up, I was ready. I conducted scientific research -- talked to moms on the playground -- and discovered a jar of Dippity Doo hair gel works like a charm to suspend Cheerios, Froot Loops and strands of cooked spaghetti to resemble a three-dimensional eyeball.

We did quite well that year until a mom strolled in with a plaster cast of half an eyeball with all the parts actually molded into the piece, painted and marked with colored pins.

Over the years, I learned to take these over achievers in stride, and many times I had to reassure my child that, yes, having a volcano made out of mis-matched Play-Doh and adorned with paper umbrellas was really okay.

After my last child left elementary school, I thought my days of creating science projects were over.

I was wrong.

High school offered them a chance to join the Science Olympiad. I read the requirements for the Science Olympiad, and I bribed my sons to join any club other than the Science Olympiad. There was no way I was even going to attempt to recreate the Amazon jungle in a shoe box.

Once they'd all graduated from school, I breathed a sigh of relief -- no more homework projects.

Until two weeks ago.

Like many volunteers at my church, I teach a class. This year, the staff decided teachers would take turns organizing the opening ceremony.

The first week, Becky gave each youngster a note card that resembled an autumn leaf and asked each student to print a special blessing on the paper. I wasn't worried at that point, thinking she'd glue the leaves to a poster board and display the poster in the foyer.

The next week, she walked in with a three-dimensional, tri-fold poster card. She'd created a tree trunk, using brown wrapping paper she'd twisted to resemble the trunk and the branches. Then she glued those leaf note cards to the tree, creating a stunning three-dimensional piece of work.

I stood there, looking at the equivalent of the Sistine Chapel of science projects, and my heart dropped. I was scheduled to handle the opening ceremony the next week.

Some people, I thought, are at the top of the school project food chain. Others, like me, are the plankton at the bottom.

But as I remember from the Science Olympiad brochure, even we lowly pieces of plankton occupy a special place on the science board.

Now what did I do with that jar of Dippity Doo?

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.