Recently I was asked to be a science fair judge at our local elementary school.  Even though my kids have graduated from said school, the PTO over there knows a sucker when they see one.  And that would be me.  

Seems the school had trouble recruiting volunteer judges because they held the proctoring from noon to two.  Call me crazy, but if you want to maximize your parent volunteers you don’t ask them to give up that precious time when their kids are in school.  Don’t get me wrong, we all love our children more than life itself, but you have to admit, whether you’re running a Fortune 500 company or running the dishwasher, you get way more done when the kids are off learning how to conjugate verbs and factor polynomials.

Having two boys, three years apart, I spent 9 YEARS as a volunteer at that elementary school.  Even though I’ve moved on to the exciting world of junior high and high school, I’m pretty sure the masterminds at the elementary still have my number programmed into the This-Parent-is-Too-Wimpy-to-Say-No section of their phone system.  I bet I have my own button and everything.

Which reminds me, I need to seriously think about changing my contact info – and possibly my identity – if I want to ensure my future success in the school volunteer witness protection program. I know many high school moms who went through this program and as a result they now look nothing like they did when their kids were little.  For one thing, they comb their hair and shower more often. They don’t walk around with spittle or other bodily fluids dripping down their shirts.  And everyone one of them can complete a sentence without interjecting, “Do you have to go potty?”, “Stop kicking the back of my seat!”, or “Get your hand out of your pants.” (Oh, wait, that last one was directed at the dads.  Never mind.)  The really hardcore volunteer moms who want out (i.e. room mothers) have been known to lose weight, color their hair, and even learn a foreign language just to help hide their identities.  But you know they’ve really crossed over when they stop buying their underwear at Costco.  At that point it becomes poignant.

But until I get the nerve up to actually join this program, how can I say no to third graders and their baking soda, vinegar volcanoes?  So off I went to judge the elementary school science fair.

And because I’m such a softie, I vowed to be a fair, but lenient, judge.  Far be it from me to spoil some child’s dream of becoming the next Madame Curie or Carl Sagan.  I mean, after all, I don’t want to toot my own horn, but (a-hem) I did major in math at U.C. Berkeley back in the “I am woman, hear me roar” days when very few girls went into the hard sciences.  I have to admit it wasn’t the most exciting of majors, however it was dominated by males, so the dating pool was huge – if you liked Star Wars fan boys who preferred typing FORTRAN punch cards over getting hammered at the Delta Chi House on Friday nights (which I did – preferred the geeks over Greeks, I mean).

So suffice it to say I felt qualified to judge an elementary school science fair.   That is, until I came upon my first project:  a Play-Doh diorama of how the linear accelerator at Stanford University splits an atom – presented by Billy, age 8.

I’m sorry, but who let this kid in here?  His parents obviously did his project for him.  So I asked, “Billy, what is your hypothesis?”

“Is a particle accelerator more efficient if it runs straight or in a circle?” He replied.

“If you have to ask, then I’d say you didn’t do your homework, young man.”  

“No, that’s my hypothesis.  There’s some debate over whether or not a linear accelerator can justify its cost over its traditional circular counterpart.  I think it can.”

“Oh.  And you’re going to prove that with Play-Doh?”

“Yes.”  The kid then proceeded to talk for 10 minutes using words like antimatter, cold cathode, radio frequency and protons.  I nodded pensively even though I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.  

When he was finished he looked at me proudly, like he’d just unlocked the secrets of the universe (and for all I know, he had).  Suddenly I realized he wanted me to speak.  “Um, I like your shoes.  Did you get those at the factory outlet?”

“Is that… part of your evaluation?” He asked, sensing I was about as scientific as wood.

“No.  I’m killing time until I can think of something intelligent to say, so I don’t look like a goober in front of someone who’s younger than the mold in my refrigerator.” (Now there’s a science project.)  Actually, I didn’t say that.  Instead I asked him, why he thought we needed a particle accelerator in the first place.  This stumped him. 

“Because… it’s cool?” He sheepishly replied.  I told him to think about why you’d want to move particles around real fast, and that I’d come back in a minute and we’d discuss it further. 

In the mean time, I moved on to the next project, one done by a cute little blond girl with braids and bright pink nail polish.  “Okay, what have you got for me?” I asked.

“Using Einstein’s theory of Relativity I am going to prove that time travel is possible,” she said with a lisp through her two missing front teeth.

Holy mother of sweet pickles, you’ve got to be kidding me! Where the heck are the baking soda and vinegar volcanoes?

“Um, would you excuse me for just a minute, dear?” I scurried off with my tail between my legs to find the science fair parent organizer, who happened to hiding out in the teachers’ lounge watching The World’s Dumbest Hunting Accidents on YouTube.

“Okay, it’s official.  We’re just a pack of prehistoric posers when it comes to technology,” I said as I watched some hayseed blow his toe off with a shotgun.  

“What are you talking about,” she answered, “you have a math degree.”  I looked at her suspiciously.  “Hey, we do background checks on all our science fair judges.  You should see what we go through to just approve our safety patrol parents.”

“It doesn’t matter.  That math degree is over 25 years old.  Our kids are technology natives.  We’re just immigrants at best.”  I sighed.  “Maybe I should move on.  Maybe it is time I applied to the volunteer witness protection program.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because last I checked the Internet has a long way to go before it can teach a child common sense.”  We both looked at the computer screen just in time to see a reenactment of Dick Cheney shoot his in friend in  the face.

I smiled.  I guess it was my duty to stay in the game... at least a little longer.  And with that I proudly went back to finish judging the elementary school science fair.