We got the assignment before the break, but I didn't feel like dealing with it then. We finally did the experiment a couple weeks ago, but honestly, didn't look at it again until last night. How was I to know there was so much writing involved? (It's not like Jack was on top of it; he could rarely remember to bring home the paperwork each night.) I had no idea that cutting out fourteen titles and text boxes with curly-q scissors would be such a hair-tearing operation. Or that choosing a font color would be such a trauma. Next time, I'll remember that yelling "I'm going to lose my mind if you don't focus, right now!" sets off a crying jag, which takes up precious cutting and pasting time. I'll remember that creativity should be severly limited when dealing with small children, that letting his little artistic spirit free at 10:00 on a Tuesday night is just going to cost me money in crazy meds. A poster board doesn't have to be hand-colored with highlighters to eliminate white space. Next time, I'll remember, for sure, that the day the project is assigned is the best possible day to start it.
It's done and on the bus now. There's no telling if it will make it all the way to school; it was acting as some sort of wind shield while we were outside, which may cause irreparable bending or tearing of certain parts, but I tried to let go of it. It wasn't mine in the first place; I had to keep reminding myself that it was Jack's project. That Jack had to cut and glue and paste. That Jack had to decide on the arrangement of pictures. That even though none of that happened the way I would have done it, it wasn't mine to create. And yet, as he left the house with it on top of his head, running across the icy street, I did feel a small sense of pride in my project. I mean his.