Worst Holiday EVAR: Science Fair Eve.

Harry Shearer's syndicated weekly radio show, Le Show, features an "apologies of the week" segment where he highlights the public apologies from large corporations, celebrities, politicians, etc.

Today I'm here to provide my own personal apology of the week.

I'm sorry, people, for every bitchy thing I did today. But you just don't understand what's going on: It's Science Fair Eve.

For those who have yet to shat forth the next generation of would-be hard-core procrastinators, let me tell you how it goes:

1) You receive a notice that the SCIENCE FAIR will be happening. You will receive this notice in January--at least you should have received this notice in January, but for some odd reason you will only find it when you are cleaning out the lint trap in the dryer. At this exact moment your spawn will waltz through the door after school with the infamous stress-inducing trifold poster board.

2)Your upper lip will start to sweat when you notice that the trifold poster board is completely naked.

3) You will begin mumbling in tongues like a well-traveled sailor when you are told that the completed tri-fold poster board, along with experiment and conclusion are due.....tomorrow.

When we sign up to take on the responsibilities of ensuring the survival of offspring, we don't typically think of the damaging effects Science Fair Eve has on the psyche. When you find out you're pregnant, you don't ever stroke your belly and hum, "I can't wait until I'm huffing rubber cement at 1:30 a.m. whilst sticking jellybeans on cardboard."

But you must. It is a right of passage. Only once you have undergone the wild ordeal of paper maché-ing a a giant pair of sunglasses that look more like a uterus will you understand the panicked horror of Science Fair Eve.

But FEAR NOT, friends. I'm not here to gripe incessantly. I'm here to offer hope. I will offer you three last-minute projects your kids can use.

The flower--nature's dial-it-in project. Google flower anatomy. Print, cut, and paste information on trifold. Buy a flower at the store (science fairs typically occur when everything in nature doesn't really give a shit about being all sciencey and most vegetation is dormant--at least in our neck of the woods. This furthers my theory that schools conspire to rid you of your will to live. They are also probably in cahoots with the wine dealers). Done.
Poster board title: "Flowers are pretty, but not as pretty as my mother."

Living death--whatchagot project. Clean out your refrigerator. Give you child that tupperware from the back of the fridge--the one with the leftovers that are older than your first born. (NOTE: When you give the plastic death bomb to your child, get a little misty and with a shuddery voice say, "I've been saving this for you since you were born." They will have no choice but to use it. ALSO, when science fair is over, said child can throw it away at the school and NOT in your home. Win/win.) Poster board title: You can go with either "Mold vs. Plastic" or "The effects of parental academic negligence." Your choice.

Foot funk--why the hell do little boys' feet smell so bad? No, seriously, I want to know. It's messed up. For this one you can google sebaceous glands or something like that. Staple a few of the socks you found between the couch cushions to the poster board (if too tough, you may want to use nails or spritz them with water and they'll adhere themselves. Google foot odor. Bleach all areas surrounding science fair project.
Poster board title: "My mom didn't even try this year."

Other science fair options are "how foot rubs keep me from getting grounded" or "Lightbulbs: It's Called Magic" or "Pie and it's effect on the mood."

The final option comes complete with poster board visual! Yes, this was the OMG-I-can't-believe-it's-Science-Fair-Eve scientific discovery this year. I spent an hour figuring out how to draw lattice in a word. I smell like rubber cement. My eyes want to bleed now.

But somewhere in the torrent of hormonal hysteria, mostly mine, I think we had a good time. My face is so happy it's dancing....or twitching depending on your Science Fair Eve knowledge base.

Taking inventory.

I am far from any semblance of the quintessential mother/woman. If one were to be defined by their things, I'd say I'm screwed by modern-day's standards of living: Single mom, two baby daddies, trailer by the river, etc. Some days you look at your life sunny-side-down.
If you ever find yourself taking inventory and your list should appear similar to the one above, you may want to just admit one thing to yourself.  

"Self," you'll say, "you done Jerry'd up your life." 

There's really no way to pinpoint the moment that brought me to this state of a Springer life (all right, I'm sure there is, but that would require a nostalgic exegisis and we all know how well those go, don't we?). Regardless of the reasons, I'm in it. I'm neck-deep in the midday televised squalor of humanity.

But on days when one feels particularly worn out and emotionally underwhelmed with life, it's important one takes inventory of the miracles all around you. 

Here's my personal inventory:


One daughter. I am the proud owner of a sweet, pubescent tween who is happy to live out her days atop Mount Whateverest--::ugh::eye roll::--whilst communicating in monosyllabic grunts,  sighs....or worse, Broadway show tunes. 

One son. I never knew how expensive extracting quarters from an esophagus could be until I had this miracle of medicine. I attribute my closest emergency room friendships to him and his fearless appetite for...please, let's not give him any more ideas. 

One cat. This cat plays guess-what-it-feels-like-to-suffocate on a nightly basis when he finds no greater joy than cleaning his delicates while sitting on my sleeping face. 

Three-quarters of a dog. This don Juan of a dog finds joy in humping random dogs where ever he may find them. Having only three legs, my dog is always unsuccessful with his romantic interludes. These botched attempts at romance would be more entertaining if he simply avoided going for dogs that were tethered to their owners. Thanks to him, meeting new friends has never been more awkward. 

Yes, they are eight adorable sacks of childhood
 issues waiting to happen......

Eight baby chickens. I don't think of them as chickens but more severe traumatic events covered in downy adorableness simply waiting to peck-the-bucket. Chickens, like goldfish or sea monkeys, are not known for their longevity. They are obnoxious, flightless pooping machines that affix themselves upon the hearts of young, tenderhearted children only to face death on a daily basis if their downy keisters are not cleaned. It is because of this eminent threat of poop death that there is a toothbrush on my counter in a jar that says "not for faces...OR FOR MOTHERS."

One therapy jar. Because every day there is THAT moment. Because there is only ONE bathroom. Because Mom is still learning how to mom one humiliating mistake at a time. Because sometimes we run out of toiletpaper/peanutbutter/hours in the day/patience. Because on occasion I eff things up. And because I say "fuck" instead of "eff" most of the time...This is why we have a therapy jar.


Because sometime down the line, when my children are old enough to manage themselves, they'll realize that their mother effed things up. They might want to pay someone to talk about it. That is when I will give them a wad of nickels and twenty dollar bills and I'll look them in the eye and say, "I knew this day would come."

One perch. Once place that I can sit and drink coffee/kombucha/gin. It's where books are read and stories are built and then written. It's the place where nighttime jitters are quelled. It's a place where both secrets and giggles are shared. It's that one sweet spot in the house where we don't worry about the things we need to do or what we don't have.

This is not the place for inventory. The joy in a quiet snuggle with a child cannot be quantified in numbers. It's where the world, no matter how Jerry'd up it may be, is just right.

Coming Home.

In the 2.5 years I've lived in this valley, I've done some pretty impressive things. I started a roller derby team, I designed costumes and sets for the local theatre, I produced and co-hosted fundraisers which brought in thousands of dollars. I coached a basketball team with a winning season. I assisted with art shows. I performed in Nationally-Affiliated read-outs and started moving toward my MFA. It all sounds pretty impressive, doesn't it?

Well, it means absolutely shit when your son can't read. It means nothing when your tween tells you that you're never around. It means absolutely nothing when you can't find the lost library books. It means diddly squat when it's February and you're using strings of Christmas lights as an extension cord for your laptop.

I'm tapped out. I feel like a deflated teat with nothing else to offer, and the ones who need the most support have gotten the shaft.

In my valiant effort to find validity in my own life, I've lost sight of the little beings who have needed the most validation. My children are bussed and tousled from here to there, spilling sports jerseys and homework all the while. Exciting pizza night event notices get stuffed between the seat cushions of the day and forgotten because of high-profile meetings or art events. In small towns we all take turns entertaining each other, and I simply thought I was paying my dues to the community.

But at what cost?

My son's teacher has no tolerance for him. "He's failing," she told me. "He shouldn't be in this class." The words stung. I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn't think that I was capable of doing anything about his situation. Do we let our children suffer through classes that they despise and say, "welcome to the real world, kid," or do we take them out of places that make them pouty and then slather them with personal accolades for flushing the toilet after twosies and  then celebrate with cake?

This is where I found myself today--a day where I had far more insipid blogs to write.

Instead of going and taking on more community volunteer services, I cleaned my home, hoping that some semblance of order would right the wrongs I've done in the last two-and-a-half years of service. I looked at myself and wondered where the hell this social paranoia came from. Does the sweat for my community even matter when my future is not even twitching an eye on the couch in front of the computer?

"I just need a hug, Mom."

My daughter, writhing in her own hyper-hormonal skin looked up at me for help, maybe hope, or relief from the crazy dancing the Watusi through her veins.

My children have had it rough in the last two years. Their mother has tried to find distraction from a painful divorce by creating a web of support in the community. Social nesting, maybe. They lost their family units in the breakup and then they lost their mother to social obligations.

We hugged tonight. All of us hugged. We made corn dogs and toast for dinner. We did homework. Somewhere between  spelling the word "again" and "there" (both spelled with a "q," mind you) I came home. I found my feet under my body and wrangled my personal fears of dealing with my divorce. Homework has a new meaning.

I cancelled all of my social obligations (save one last one coming up) and felt our family gel and hold. "The world can wait," a friend told me. She was so right.

So scoff or do what you will. I'm okay with that. I don't need any validation in this endeavor. But sometimes begin a grownup means saying "no" to all of those things that validate your self and saying "yes" to those things that fart on your lap.