Last year, my first-grade daughter was assigned a diorama for a school project. She and I built a coyote habitat from magazine clippings and cardboard. She cast her artistic direction and took the lead. It turned out nice—cotton clouds strung up on string and paper-pointed mountains, what you’d expect from a first grader.
Then we got to school and viewed the others. Parents had clearly poured hours (and money) into creating professional-level displays: jungle trees made of plaster, clear plastic streams, and papier-mâché cacti. My daughter caught on, too.
“Mom,” she said on the way home, “did you see those other ones? They were way better than mine.”
I assured her she’d done a fine job, but it had obviously been a parental showcase, even though that wasn’t anyone’s intention.
This year, we upped our game.
Now, when she brings home a school project, I feel as if I, too, have just received homework. How lucky.
My daughter brought home her most recent assignment, which required her to decorate a pumpkin like a favorite character from a book. She read the sheet and waved it in my face. “Mom, this time can we do something better?” I could hear the anxiety in her voice—she wanted her project to measure up.
Instead of scrounging supplies around the house, we scrolled through Pinterest-perfect examples. Then we headed to the craft store with our vision and $20 in hand.
I mixed the perfect flesh color for Ludwig Bemelman’s Madeline, cut out her pinafore from felt, and commissioned my 12-year-old son to construct her hat and paint her face. My daughter and I spent a comically long time cutting and gluing individual strands of yarn to make Madeline’s hair and fringe bangs.
At some point, my daughter drifted away, frustrated.
“We’re almost done,” I said, urging patience. But it wasn’t *we* anymore; it was *me*. I had hijacked her project, and it wasn’t fun anymore. Still, I felt satisfied we wouldn’t be “showed up” this year. Our pumpkin looked very homemade and wouldn’t be the best, but our effort showed.
My daughter’s pumpkin did fit in with the other parent-assisted projects.
On presentation day, our imperfect Madeline was a far cry from the best. There were character faces too perfect to be the work of a child. Yarn was placed and glued without a stray hair. Animal ears constructed from symmetrical foam pieces.
A handful of endearingly childish ones stood out like sore thumbs.
“Which one’s yours?” I joked to one of the other moms.
“The Hungry Caterpillar.”
This sweet little pumpkin, painted with smudgy flowers and fruit and a blobby caterpillar, was one of the few clearly crafted by a second grader.
“Oh, so your child actually did it by herself,” I blurted.
The mom wasn’t offended.
“Yep, she did it on her own. Don’t get me started on these projects.”
I laughed uneasily, thinking how much I’d helped my daughter on hers. My good intentions—wanting to help, to do something together—morphed into performance.
My daughter wanted my help so hers would turn out a little more polished and presentable. But in hindsight, that means she lost the chance to feel capable, to gain autonomy.
Next time, I want to step back. To let her create something a little more lopsided, streaky, or uneven. To teach her that effort matters more than polish. And that we don’t have to give in to perfection and pressure.
But this will require me to put aside my pride to cheer her on and encourage her visions without getting too involved.
And when she shows up at school disappointed that hers doesn’t measure up to the other parent-led work, I want to remind her that she did it all on her own and should be proud.
Because it’s her project, not mine.
https://www.businessinsider.com/parent-did-kids-class-project-homework-regret-it-2025-11