Bracing for the current crisis, I looked up. You always look up at teenagers these days.

"I have to enter a project in the science fair," said 15year-old Carolyn.

Her simple-sounding words gave me a delusion of infallibility, but bouts with colic and chicken pox had done nothing to prepare me for what I was about to face.

Since she is a devotee of Benjamin Franklin, Carolyn began her project as soon as she heard of the science fair – along about Thanksgiving. She chose "The Intelligence of Turtles." I seriously doubted that turtles have any intelligence and was none too happy about having eight of them as winter house guests. But as long as I did not have to touch them, I supposed it would not be too bad.

Blissfully unaware, I set out for town. I had just received a $10 check for a story I had sold to a church magazine. I was full of plans for spending it in a way befitting its origin. Unfortunately, we stopped at the pet shop first. As Carolyn selected turtles, pan, food and a book on care, I stared at the sluggish creatures. They would never have the sense to find their way through the maze she had built for them, I thought. The bells on the cash register roused me.

"That will be $10.35," the man said.

"Ten dollars!" I gurgled. My whole $10. Instantly I hated the slimy creatures. They peered at me through their slitted green eyes and seemed to be saying, "You are paying money and we are getting fed, so who’s stupid?"

"Lady, you’re getting off a lot lighter than most parents," the man consoled me.

REFUSING to believe him, I cherished my grudge against the turtles until about a month later when I called my sister to go somewhere with me.

"I can't go," she wailed. "Buster’s mice keep escaping through the bars of the cages. We’ve spent all day putting screen wire around the cages." Her voice was tinged with science-project hysteria.

I decided to go and have a look – first giving them ample time to capture all of the mice. Stunned, I stared into Buster’s room – or perhaps I should say the mice’s room for they seemed to dominate it now. In the middle of the floor was a 6-foot-long board mounted on a motor. There was a cage of mice on each end. The whole thing revolved dizzyingly, unendingly.

"How can you sleep in here with that thing?" I squeaked. Seeing more cages of mice lining the walls, I added incredulously, "And all of those mice?"

Buster grinned feebly and explained that he was to keep them long enough to see what effect the extra gravitational pull would have on the offspring.

OFFSPRING? Wall-to-wall mice! I went home to those cute little turtles. I knew by now they could not escape. I had counted them each day to be sure. I leaned over the pan and told them how superior they were to those mice. Surprised, I realized they responded to the sound of my voice. I actually reached out to pat them. Most of them withdrew disdainfully into their shells. The one who seemed to be the king, for he invariably, occupied the highest rock, looked at me brightly. When I stroked his little green head his yellow throat puffed out with pleasure. Thus recompensed, I watched the clever little fellows make their trip, however slow, through the maze. Carolyn was allowed to push one group. I don’t know if talking and coaxing were included in the instructions, but it did seem to encourage them on their way.

My truce was made with the turtles, but peace is a transient guest in a house with children. Ten-year-old John announced that he, too, must have a science project on which he must spend five to 15 hours. By now it was Christmas and a thoughtful grandfather provided a science kit. It was a working model of an auto chassis. Father and son began work with pleasure. John understood perfectly that there is a worm in a car. They showed me a do-jigger on the steering mechanism. It did resemble a worm. Maybe that is why men make better drivers. Women were not meant to bother with such. Words like differential, transmission and bevel gears flowed by me as I slipped quietly away. I would not be needed here.

I sank luxuriously into bed with a book of poetry Carolyn had given me for Christmas and listened to the soothing music of the record that was John’s present. I reflected that growing children were pretty nice to have after all.

At long last the car model was completed. But the men decided that so grand a machine must have a grand poster to accompany it. It must be stenciled and printed with rubber stamps. Since the 15 hours had grown into days, we did not think the teacher would mind if John had a little help on the printing. But who could be called upon to set up type? Mother, of course. If I had time to put on a hat, I would tip it to the typesetters of the world. They undoubtedly have nerves that are stone dead.

As signs of spring began to appear, every family we knew was in a weird state of togetherness, stewing over a science project. Each one had to be different. John reported that our doctor’s son was building a still. The teacher would have to admit that was different.

SMART people who finish their work early always wind up doing the work of others; thus Carolyn was summoned to do the delicate stenciling on John's poster. As the whole family gathered around, there was a knock on the door.

"May I check your dog for fleas and ticks?" asked our neighbor, Joe.

I stared at him blankly. The request seemed a trifle strange even for Joe’s wry humor.

"In the interest of science, of course," Joe sighed. "Katie has to have 50 bugs. It’s harder than it sounds"

Our shaggy dog bounded up and happily yielded a flea, but not a tick.

Joe went off mumbling, "Thirty-seven down, 13 to go.

Where were all of those statistical parents who never knew what their children were doing, I wondered. They were not in our community. Well, at least not in science fair time.