Donovan had an assignment last weekend.  It was to construct a trap to put on his desk Monday morning to catch a leprechaun.

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” I thought, and so Sunday evening we got together some eye catching shiny trinkets, some green paints and pens, some double-sided tape and a few treats to tempt the little green man.  Sitting there, I remembered my own school days and more distinctly I remembered a project that I was assigned; it was to create an environment for one of your stuffed animals.  I crafted and hot glued and colored all night.  My mom didn’t lift a finger.  When I brought that project in it was the rinkiest dinkiest crappiest looking project in grade two.  In my mind it had looked like the Garden of Eden when in reality it looked like a Salvador Dali rendition of Where the Wild Things Are.

I wish I could say I was the type of kid who loved my project anyway.  I didn’t.  I wanted to stuff it in the trashcan and take an F.  I was mad at my mom.  She didn’t help me with the project; she didn’t have a closet full of the best Crayola products; and oh yeah she NEVER made homemade cookies.  That being said, I am just like her.  Oh yes, I’m willing to help.  I’m willing to help find supplies, be it in the trash or a desk drawer, but I ain’t doing no project.  Period.  I’m thirty-seven and if I do a project I get paid for it.  If I do a project it doesn’t involve a leprechaun and I hate a science fair so like I said, my time has passed.

But not to worry, Donovan had a very distinct idea of how he wanted to make his trap and so he did.  I sat there for moral support, to listen to his ongoing litany and to unscrew the glue top.  My job was simple.
When he finished the trap looked like, well it looked like a trap constructed by a six year old; think lots of glue, random bits of tape and shiny gold beads in a jumble glued to the top. 

However, when we got the school it was a whole different story.  As we were walking into the auditorium I begin to see children carrying what looked to be small-scale models created by perhaps Frank Lloyd Wright.  Huge rainbows and genuine little pots of gold and suddenly I see Donovan looking at his little messy card sized box as if he’s carrying rat trap with an extra set of Mr. T’s gold teeth on top.

Great, great, my kid has a crappy little ghetto leprechaun trap but don’t worry I wanted to scream there isn’t even a real thing called a leprechaun so all these silly people wasted time creating brilliant traps when there is actually NO BAIT…HHHHHAAAAHHHAA!

But I don’t, because he believes in the little green man and before he saw these Ninth Wonders of the World he thought he might be able to catch him in his, which is by the way losing gold beads with every step as if Mr. T’s teeth just took a hard knock to the jaw.
I scramble after beads and send him on his way with a merry kiss, but he only vaguely brushes my lips because he is too entranced by a leprechaun trap that actually has motorized moving parts while his looks like he pulled it from the trash pile. 

Now I’m pissed.  I call my husband pronto. 

“Great Babe,” I say, skipping the introductory customary hello.

“Whhaa?”

“You blew it when you read the instructions.  Donovan WAS NOT supposed to make the trap, we were.” 

I’m joking. 

It was Donovan’s project all along and maybe we will catch that wee little man after all.  I mean, who doesn’t like Mr. T?

I pity the fool.