“Mom, hurry the tornado fell!”
I rushed to my son’s bedroom and panicked to see his science project lying on the floor. I looked around for the culprit and saw my 20-month-old’s shifty eyes. I carefully picked up the tornado box, hoping nothing was broken, adjusted it into its place, shut the door and moved the kids to the other room.
A month ago my older son came home with his science project information. I thought that he and my husband could have some bonding time making a simple little project. I was picturing my son impaling insects on cardboard and writing their Latin names underneath, or measuring how much rain had fallen in March in our town, or maybe planting seeds in different pots and researching the growing patterns of the plants, or if nothing else, throwing baking soda and something else in a jar and watching it bubble and change colors.
My son was thinking: rockets, solar-powered cars, robots and earthquakes. My husband and son finally agreed on tornadoes and making a tornado box. I was happy I wasn’t involved until my husband started talking about supplies. Oh, supplies–I’m thinking cardboard and something that spins. My husband is talking about Plexiglas, fans, dry ice, smoke, batteries; I’m seeing dollar signs and my son lying on the floor electrocuted.
So, when my daughter told me the tornado had fallen, I had to dash into the room to rescue the Rolls-Royce of science projects. After all, my
husband son has worked so hard on it.