The Eleventh Hour

Since we were all a-scramble to get the pinewood derby cars and rockets ready to race last Saturday, we have left other things undone. Last Friday night, we were still adding wheels to cars, and sorting out rocket propellers. The results were as follows:
Son's rocket placed 4 out of 4 in his den. Son cried.
Son's car placed 3rd out of 10 in his den. Son gets to race at Districts. Son wants to know how to make the car go faster yet. Parents wonder why Son didn't care about that last week.
Daughter's car won the popular vote for "most colorful car" out of all the entries... some 40 cars. Daughter was at pinnacle of happiness.

Now, it is Wednesday night. The eve of the science fair. Parents divided and "conquered." I let hubby pick the child. He picked Son, and his gravity project. Daughter and I got to work on her trifold: "What spiders eat."

I spent some time staring, horrified and unable to turn away, at computer images of spiders eating things. Like: a bird. (Hubby's comment: "That's Australia for you." He can say such things, being married to a kiwi wife.) Daughter roller painted her trifold with pink glitter paint. She has adhered lacy cutout webs, drawn spiders sidling up to flies, and typed or wrote all her labels. Things hang off her trifold from poorly rolled scotch tape that daughter insists is the way to adhere paper to glittery, shiny trifold. Points to OCD parent for not interfering.

Hubby played while the sun shone. Son also played. Right this minute, at fifteen minutes past bedtime, Son is dressed and messing with helium balloons. Hubby is desperately trying to explain how gravity is acting on mass.

I feel superior. However, the snow is coming, and there are terrific odds the science fair will be canceled.