The Science Project Had to Be Finished Before the Engineer Got Home

On Thursday afternoon I was sitting in the school pickup line when Abby came bursting through the door.

“Mom, I have a project I need to do before wrestling practice.”

My eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror.
“What kind of project?”

With fear in her voice, she said, “A science project.”

The violins of a horror soundtrack could have been ominously playing in the background.

Everyone in that car understood what this meant.

Well… almost everyone. Ashley, oblivious to the danger, kicked her feet and drooled happily that her sissa and bobba were next to her. But even TJ, the family’s resident chaos agent, actually reached over and put a hand on Abby’s shoulder.

“Good luck, Abby.”

This project had to be completed before the engineer got home.

Now before I start complaining, I need to say this: we are unbelievably blessed to have a husband and father who takes such an interest in his kids’ schoolwork. In fact, our entire family exists because he was something of a math-tutoring prodigy in seventh grade. Abby and TJ are both good at math, so more often than not, its me he's having to help. 

And after twenty years of patience, I think his may finally be running thin. For example, no matter how many times he explains that “a 20% tip is just the bill multiplied by ten and doubled,” I still don’t get it. Is it divided by ten then doubled? He’s going to kill me when he reads this.

But science is a whole other problem.

Bubs lives and breathes discovery. A simple elementary school task is never just a task. It is an opportunity. A gateway. A chance to optimize. And while this is a wonderful quality in a man who's trusted to land aircraft and design systems, it is deeply threatening when the job at hand is fourth-grade homework.

Abby’s assignment was simple enough: a short report on the creosote bush — the scraggly, indestructible plant that covers southern Arizona like it’s been personally appointed by God to survive the apocalypse. One question asked about the “thickness” of the bush.

Normal people hear this and think, measure how wide it is.

Engineers hear this and think, define your variables.

I could feel the clock ticking. Wrestling practice. Dinner. Bedtime. And looming over all of it: the moment the garage door would open.

So we moved fast.

We defined “thickness” as “how wide the bush is.”
We walked down the street with the dogs to a patch of creosote bushes.
Abby measured.
Abby wrote a few complete sentences.
We did not Google peer-reviewed desert ecology studies.

The work was completed. The worksheet was tucked neatly in a backpack. The child was intact. The house was quiet.

For a brief moment, I believed we were safe.

Cue the horror music.

The next morning I was packing lunches and singing Ophelia to Ashley while she cooed in her swing when I saw Bubs come through the front door from his run — and Abby’s red folder sitting innocently on the coffee table. She must have pulled it out of her backpack sometime during the night.

It was a race. I lost.

With no ill intent, Bubs picked up the folder, probably trying to figure out where it belonged. Then came the pacing. The flipping of pages. Rubbing his temples. His eyes searching for some hidden instruction only he might detect. It’s adorable — and something he’s done since middle school, when he’d have to step into the hallway to “pace and think” so he wouldn’t disturb the class.

And then — predictably, lovingly, catastrophically — he said:

“Aww Abby, I wish you would have let me help you. We could have googled the density of creosote bushes in the area, then walked to the Arizona Trail and created a representative sample of land. We could have measured all the bushes in that area and gotten a much more accurate answer.”

Abby looked at me, clearly relieved — but I caught a flicker of guilt in her blue eyes.
“Sorry Dad, maybe next time. I just needed to get it done before wrestling practice.” She padded into the kitchen.

I giggled. I couldn’t help it.

“Sorry you didn’t get to make a spreadsheet on creosote bushes.”

(Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have.)

He sighed, wounded but determined.

“Dani, fine, I get that you’re teasing me. But need I remind you she wants to go to the Air Force Academy? The kids she’ll be competing with are already doing things like this.”

I looked at him — this tall, handsome man I love more than life itself — and said calmly:

“I love you, Bubs, but no they aren’t.”

I shouldn’t have said that either, but as a former elementary school teacher and assistant principal, I get to play the expert sometimes.

Here’s the thing that’s so strange about marriage.

We have combined DNA to make entirely new people. Our finances are so entangled it would take a team of highly paid accountants to untangle them. We know each other’s worst habits, deepest insecurities, and the exact tone of voice that means this is not worth pursuing further.

And still — still — we can find ourselves locked in a quiet power struggle over a fourth-grade science worksheet.

He left for his shower with a dismissive, “You really can be a jerk sometimes, Dani.”

And I stood there, loving him completely… while internally gloating just a little.

But as the morning wore on, I started to feel guilty. Yes, I’d landed a crushing victory with my smart-ass lines, but is he really the person I want to score victories against?

Sometimes yes. But maybe not on Friday, January 23rd. 

So Ashley and I drove into town and kidnapped him for lunch at Texas Roadhouse — mostly paleo-ish for him (which means extra rolls for me) while I listened to him talk about his day and marveled, once again, that there are people as smart as him keeping the world running.

And honestly?

I survived.
Abby survived.
The creosote bush survived.

Bubs knows there'll be plenty more science projects  in the future, some of which will require spreadsheets and analysis. 

And thankfully Texas Roadhouse has a little computer that figures out the tip for you.