I remember being beyond excited when I was in elementary school and my teacher assigned a project. I couldn’t wait for the chance to do something I was interested in without having to stay within the lines of a textbook. But never once do I remember wondering what my mother thought of these projects.
But now with Laurel and Trevor approaching the end of elementary school, we have finished seemingly gazillion posters, homemade games and dioramas. And who can forget the robot made out of geometric shapes that fell apart whenever you moved him? I am now positive that my mother wasn’t quite as fond of school projects as I was growing up.
Now when my kids bring home project assignments, I groan because I know what’s waiting for me in the near future. The kitchen table will soon be overrun with markers and poster board.
My car will make several unexpected trips to the store in search of a specific color marker or more modeling clay. And I will spend several of my evenings trying to supportively encourage my children without giving in and finishing it for them to save stress.
Never miss a local story.
But I always seem to forget the tears and late evenings when I see the pride in their faces as they put the finishing touches on their masterpieces. And I have learned the hard way that no grade is worth allowing glitter into my house, no matter how much Trevor or Laurel swear it will enhance the project.