How a Grade 1 project taught me about letting go as a parent- "it's not my project!"

The teacher’s message popped up on the parent group one Tuesday afternoon.

“Grade 1 project: learners must choose a pet animal and design its habitat in 3D format using recyclable materials.”

She was kind enough to send examples too: adorable little birds perched in handmade nests, a fish floating in a painted shoebox ocean, even a puppy curled up in a cardboard kennel. Cute, doable, and, I thought, This should be easy.

I was wrong.

That evening, I sat my son down and asked, “So, which pet did you choose?”

Without blinking, he replied, “A spider, Mommy. A radioactive tarantula.”

I froze. Radioactive. Tarantula.

My brain immediately went into overdrive. First of all, radioactive spiders don’t exist (at least not outside of Marvel Comics). Second, how on earth do you replicate that in 3D without traumatising the teacher?

His dad, ever the scientist, took it upon himself to explain what “radioactive” meant. Soon he was on a roll, lecturing about mutations, radiation, and the small fact that if a spider survived, humanity would be six feet under. “Too much for a six-year-old to process,” I whispered, but by then the damage was done. After some back-and-forth negotiations, Big Boy agreed to downgrade his project from radioactive tarantula to… regular tarantula. Progress.

Fast forward to a few days before the due date, and our house turned into a brainstorming hub.

“Mommy, keep the toilet paper holders,” he instructed. “We can paint them and add trees, stones, twigs, and leaves.”

“Good idea,” I nodded.

“And for the web, we can ask Ma for cotton and wool,” Daddy chimed in.

I sat quietly, already planning the habitat’s base. I had an old book box lying around and decided it could be cut and reshaped into a spider tank. A perfect cage.

Then came “project assembly day.”

Off I went to the R5 store for glue, paint, and extra tape, while at home the boys started laying everything out. The dining room was transformed into a mini construction site: paper scraps, sticky fingers, twigs dragged in from the garden, cotton and wool everywhere.

And here’s where I learned my biggest parenting lesson (again): this project is not mine. It does not belong to me, or Daddy. It belongs to my son. My role was overseer, not architect.

Still, it wasn’t easy to keep quiet.

At one point, Big Boy decided not to use the toilet paper roll as the spider body, as originally planned. Instead, he grabbed a broken Alice band of mine, pulled off the fluffy cover, and declared it the spider. Then, as if this was the most natural decision in the world, he placed the toilet paper roll on its head.

“What’s that?” I asked, half-alarmed.

“A crown,” he said matter-of-factly. “My spider is a king.”

“A king?” I blinked. “Since when does a tarantula wear a crown?”

Daddy stepped in before I could protest further:

“Tracy, let him. This is his project.”

And he was right.

I can’t be the only parent who gets carried away with these school projects. Something about cardboard and glue sticks takes you right back to your own childhood, and suddenly you want to run the show. But again and again, I had to stop myself. Step back. Let him create.

The end result? A masterpiece.

The habitat had twigs and stones collected from the garden, a cotton and wool web strung across the “tank,” and at the center sat the crowned tarantula King Spider himself. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t polished, but it was bursting with imagination.

And when Big Boy presented it with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, I realized: this was never about the neatness of the project. It was about letting him dream, create, and take ownership even if his spider wore a crown.

So yes, in our Grade 1 world, a radioactive tarantula became King Spider. And honestly? I think the teacher will love it.

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus