Project Moonbeam by Andrea Santo Felcone
“No… no… no. Not at this point in the school year … not the project bag.” But, there it is, slung casually over my youngest son’s shoulder as he approaches during school dismissal. Big smile on his face. He’s been waiting for that project bag—it’s a big deal in his first grade classroom. I know what that bag means … there have been other project bags in the past, usually stuffed animals that we had to “foster” for a week and journal their adventures. Last year’s “create a board game” with your kindergartner–nearly brought our household to its knees. But, I can see he’s excited as he tells me about the project he needs to complete—tonight. Yes, um, tonight, as in literally—after dark.
You see, the project bag was making its rounds alphabetically, and when it stopped with you–you had to study the Moon in its current phase, draw a picture of it, and read an accompanying book (or two). The teacher in me–marveled at the simplicity. Inside the bag there were white crayons, some black construction paper, a few stubs of chalk, and books about the Moon. The most important item on his teacher’s supply list—hung elegantly in the night sky (no extra trips to Target required). How simple. How inexpensive. How excited my son at the prospect of staying up late (on a school night) to wait for the Moon. “It will be something we can do together, Mom,” he said, knowing exactly which sensitive heartstring to pull.
I cannot remember the last time I had a solid night’s rest. There’s always something that wakes my seven-year-old: either a bad dream, a need for water, the “thump” he creates when he whacks his elbow or leg on his wall. He’s at that phase where he’s all elbows and legs, like a baby deer unfolding itself; the rolling and thumping–a nightly routine. And, forget it if he has a cold. He’s miserable and his misery sets off my worry, and then I am like a sentinel at the gate, half-asleep, half-awake, listening, wondering if all is well. Perhaps this lack of deep sleep is one of the sacrifices of Motherhood. The worry that seems to go with the job (at least the way I approach it). My worry comes with its own bravado, thinking it’s the only one qualified to stand guard. I wish someone else were the sentinel, just once.
So, no, I’m not that excited for the Moon project. Knowing I can’t give up any shred of sleep, I try to insert some logic into this situation. I try to convince him we could just as easily have a satisfying night if we “Googled” the Moon—together. (Oh, the irony of telling a child to go to the computer instead of nature; I know.) We could research whatever phase the moon was currently in, draw its picture, read a few of the enclosed books, and let the project bag move to its next victim, er, I mean, child.
“Look, it says here the Moon will still be visible in the morning. Wouldn’t you like to sketch the Moon over breakfast?” My son won’t hear of it. He runs me through all of his newly-acquired Moon facts: “There’s the crescent moon, full moon, waxing gibbous…. It’s going to be a “waning gibbous” tonight!” (Apparently, he needs to see it in all of its “waning glory”.)
I yield. His excitement has convinced me. It’s one night; we can toss routine aside. We make a pact: I’ll tuck him in at his regular bedtime, and wake him around 9:00 p.m. when the Moon is expected to rise. So, yes, for anyone keeping score, I just promised to wake my child to sketch a circle in white crayon on black paper, so he can color in exactly 75% of the circle. This, in other words, mathematically adds up to: Moon = 1; Mom = 0. This kid needs his sleep. He’s a bear without sleep. Tomorrow he’ll be a “waning and waxing kid”: waning in patience and energy–waxing in crankiness.
Once he’s all tucked in, my husband and I wait for the moon. She’s late. It’s 9:30 p.m. and there’s no sign of her. Not even a sliver is visible in its usual spot somewhere slightly north of my backyard neighbor’s trees. I suggest to my husband, we wake my son quickly, shuffle him by the street lamp in the front (that looks “waning gibbous” enough to me) and call it a night. But, no, my husband is not onboard. (O.K., fine, lying to your children is wrong, even if it is for a good cause.) But, I’m the one most likely to pay when this all goes south tomorrow.
By 10:00 p.m., even though I didn’t mean to, I fall asleep. My sleep is haunted by this Moon project. In my dream, I am an anthropologist studying gibbons in a rainforest. Part of my work includes the important task of “waxing the gibbons” (waxing gibbons/waxing gibbous–close enough). Before it is revealed to me whether this means applying car wax to these apes, or removing their chest hair (either option seems repulsive) I am interrupted by CBS CEO, Mr. Les Moonves. So, yes, it was “word association” night and the theme was “Moon” as my sleeping brain tried to remember to wake my child. (Wait, what?) In the morning, I woke amused at the dream until I realized–I had dropped the ball. I hadn’t followed through on my promise.
As luck would have it, someone else had stepped in and carried the ball for me. It was an unexpected visitor–someone comfortable working nights. The Moon herself, had crept through my son’s window, and her beam of light woke him with its brilliance around 1:00 a.m. My son had shuffled into our room, woke my husband, and they sat together enjoying the Moon. My son was thrilled.
It seems Mother Nature also keeps watch at the gate. She was looking out for us—providing an “assist” in helping me keep my promise by gently waking my son to let him finish his project. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw her in the morning shining over my son’s school.
Tags: homework, moon, phases of the moon, school project, sleep, sleep-deprived
