Emma has a project to do. Her class has been studying energy in school. This week she has to build an energy device, basically, something that uses energy. She’s too young to do anything electrical or chemical, so it basically comes down to wind and water.
I have mixed feelings about these projects. Last year she had to build a model of a playground. I helped her a bit, but she did most of it, and as a result it looked like the project of a first grader. She used a foil take-out container and glued popsicle sticks to it to represent a roundabout. For this one I punched a hole in the bottom and affixed a split-pin fastener to make it turn. She cut something else out of cardboard and made a slide. And that was pretty much it.
Long after it was handed in, I saw parents trollying their kid’s creations home. Many of them were extremely detailed and intricate models. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like pointing and yelling at the offending projects. AH-HA!. I’LL BET YOU A SUPERSIZE LATTE YOUR KID DIDN’T BUILD THAT. But I thought better of it, because that’s no way to make friends in the schoolyard.
I am the parent who helps, but just a little. I admit, it’s hard not to take over. We want our kids to get good marks, and so we are tempted to steer projects in a “better” direction.
“Let’s include a working wishing well in your model playground! And let’s use real water! I can carve a wine cork to make the bucket and I’ll braid some dental floss for the rope….”
On whole I believe that kids should be doing their own homework.
Mark and Emma did some initial research on the energy project and came up with this, a balloon-rocket car. It appeals to each of them immensely. Last night was stage one: collection of materials. This was where I was going to help. First thing we needed to find were the tires. They’re made out of the pop bottle screw top caps. We don’t drink pop, or really anything with that kind of top. And wouldn’t you know it, last week was blue box pickup. (In our neighborhood we alternate blue box collection (glass and plastics) and black box (paper) collection.) Our neighbors would also therefore be cleaned out of pop tops.
There was no way I was going to buy four bottles of pop just for this project. So I took Emma on a walk. Our destination: our local rec centre. Surely they’d have a few in their recycling bin? We hadn’t been gone two minutes when we found two plastic pop bottles, tops intact. Someone had chucked them in our hedge. We fished them out.
Did I say “we?” Emma grimaced as she reached down into the spindly part of the hedge. (“Get in there kid, you’re smaller than I am!”)
“It’s okay,” I said, in that unfortunate (and probably predictable) voice I use when I’m trying to convince someone of something unfortunate. “I know they’re a little dirty, but we’ll just put them in this plastic bag (I was prepared!) and bring them home and wash them out before we do anything with the tops.”
Emma made a sour face. The second bottle had yellow liquid in it. She made a gagging sound. “I think, it’s, lemonade,” she sputtered. I took it from her and threw it in the bag. I suddenly had a fleeting memory of an article I read about highway litter, and how a great number of bottles thrown into the ditch were pop bottles full of urine. Tossed there by male drivers who were too, um, busy to stop. I didn’t say anything, but immediately tried to erase that from my memory bank. This bottle was only half full. It couldn’t be urine, could it?
We collected four one-litre pop bottles, including two from the rec centre, and came home. I put the bag on the kitchen counter, and was scolded by Mark who was cleaning up and doing the dinner dishes. I took them downstairs and started to unscrew the tops. I saved the yellow-filled liquid one for last. Emma had thought it was lemonade, but upon closer inspection this stuff looked really dark. It was too dark to be lemonade. It looked like when someone goes number one while slightly dehydrated. It was concentrated. I couldn’t get the top off. Ugh, it must have been a trucker. (You are wondering why was I even bothering with this, aren’t you? I don’t know.) I put on a rubber glove and twisted with all my might. The top came off in my hand. Holding my breath, I ran the hot water full blast and turned the bottle over in my hand. As it chugged down the drain I noticed the label. It was a peach drink from Tim Horton’s.
