A scientist goes to kindergarten

I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at kindergartens. Not at random; that would be creepy. No, I’m on the roller coaster ride of information sessions, admissions counseling, and financial aid applications to identify the absolute perfect environment in which my soon-to-be-5-year-old daughter can make handprint turkeys.
It almost feels like I’m going on college tours, except they’re directed at a student who sometimes yells at uncooperative shoes. That alone makes it an insane experience—unless any admissions officers are reading this column, in which case it’s a beautiful experience, and I loved your art room.

After all, it’s the science classrooms of my youth that somehow nudged me toward a career as a molecular biologist.

It’s premature, to say the least, to imbue this decision with any long-term career implications. I have no illusions that a higher quality wood grain in her building blocks will push her toward a future as a successful civil engineer. But it’s also hard to deny that my daughter’s eventual vocation is some part of the endgame.
Not that she has to be a scientist. I mean, I love her, so I wouldn’t exactly wish a postdoc upon her. But whatever direction she ultimately chooses, I’d like her to have a firm foundation in science and math. And, unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea how to determine which school will provide that. Honestly, what metrics are available? Choice of mascot?
I can’t be the only one who feels so clueless. Yet the other mothers and fathers arrive at Saturday morning informational sessions in suits, carrying labeled manila folders and seeming perfectly at ease. They warmly shake the hands of school staff members and announce, “Hi, we’re the ones who’ve been emailing.” I find it hard to stay silent among the nodding parents when an assistant principal says something like, “At our school, we focus on educating the whole child.” I want to raise my hand and ask, “So, not just the legs?”

Invariably, the information sessions lead to tours, and the tours lead to science rooms, which is when I start to really pay attention. After all, it’s the science classrooms of my youth that somehow nudged me toward a career as a molecular biologist. I remember studying frog life cycles, viewing diatoms and rotifers in a drop of pond scum under the microscope, and learning about the epidemiology of infectious diseases modeled by the spread of dysentery in The Oregon Trail.
Today’s science classrooms—at least at the sort of schools that can afford to employ actual admissions departments to evaluate kids who play with mulch and berate uncooperative shoes—are pretty awesome. This is evident not only in what they show us, but in what they apologize for. “We’ve been meaning to upgrade from iPads to iPad Pros,” they’ll say, “but don’t worry, they’re coming!”
What I really appreciate, though, is how well the science teachers describe how each piece of what they teach complements the students’ lessons in their other classes. That has to be part of what pointed me toward a career in science: viewing it not just as an isolated subject, but as the most interesting component of everything else.
But I have also learned that if there’s anything modern schools hate more than conventional chalkboards, it’s rote learning. Every school is careful to emphasize that they teach kids how to learn rather than what to learn. So, instead of memorizing phyla in science class, they’re asked to investigate and explore, to ask questions they can address with experiments.
I ought to celebrate the shift from teacher-led drills to student-led investigation, from the lecture-and-quiz-and-grade-and-probably-buy-a-strawberry-phosphate-for-a-nickel-at-the-drugstore model to the one that more closely matches what real scientists actually do. After all, one of the hardest skills to teach—yet one of the most valuable to scientists—is how to apply rampant curiosity to a legitimate problem. It’s the difference between saying, “Draw this tadpole’s life cycle” and “What would you like to ask about the tadpole?” But even though I know it must be an improvement, every now and then, the new style of education starts feeling a little … I don’t know … feely.
The kids don’t practice addition and subtraction in the traditional way. For example, they stick together “unit blocks” and slide beads on abacuses to get an intuitive sense of numbers. Of course an intuitive sense of numbers is more valuable than memorized multiplication tables, so this is a good thing, right? I’m sure it must be, until I see little Caleb and Wyatt getting reprimanded for brandishing their unit blocks as swords.
And that’s where I get slightly nervous. Even though the new methodology seems like it would ultimately produce students who could become better scientists, it’s hard to accept such a sweeping change without some anxiety. What if my daughter gets to college and she’s never drawn a Lewis dot diagram, but she’s “explored” the general concept of how owls make her feel? What if she becomes the parody of progressive education, telling her physics professor that she never learned Newton’s laws of thermodynamics because her 12th grade “Science and You” teacher/facilitator spent that time showing clips of TED talks about microfinanced kale?
What if she goes to Burning Man?
The problem is, somehow I’m a practicing scientist who is a recipient, a proponent, and a practitioner of science education—yet I have no idea how science should be taught. Many of the tropes of my own elementary school experience in the ’80s are now taboo. For example, as early as first grade, I competed in math and science contests at the state level. (Then again, the state was Delaware, so pretty much any contest with at least three people was at the state level.) I even once earned a trip to Washington, D.C., for the 1992 MathCounts National Competition, which was the only time I’d ever seen a roomful of 200 eighth graders get excited about a lecture on fractals.
Those contests were an essential part of my identity, not because of an obnoxious need for external gratification, but because I enjoyed trying to win them. The nervousness, the studying, the problem solving, the anticipation at the awards ceremony—those qualities were fun to me. Nowadays, though, there’s nothing more abhorrent I could ask an admissions officer than, “Will my child have the opportunity to win trophies attesting to her intellectual superiority?”
Maybe the answer is that I need to do what a scientist does: calmly, rationally, objectively observe what happens. Choose a school based on the best data possible (or, failing that, whichever one has the best lunches) and then be vigilant. Make sure the foundation the school lays supports the principles of scientific inquiry, and if it ever doesn’t, make up the difference myself.
And maybe it’s beneficial to feel uneasy about my daughter’s education; skepticism encourages attentiveness. I’ll be paying closer attention, making sure she has all the tools necessary to not only become a scientist if she wants to, but to become a good one.
A whole scientist. Not just the legs.

Science made me a better parent

Chefs can cook delightful meals for their families. Musicians can enliven social gatherings with friends. And having medical doctors, mechanics, or lawyers on call can be a great help if you get into trouble. As a biochemist with a Ph.D. in molecular biology, however, I always felt that my professional skills were of little value outside the lab. Let’s face it: As fun as they can be, cutting and pasting DNA and growing cells are not things that you do very often when you’re home or out with friends. Until recently, I didn’t think anything I had learned in the lab could be used in the rest of my life. Since I became a father, though, my view has been steadily changing.

“I have found that parenthood is, in many ways, an extension of research.”

I have found that parenthood is, in many ways, an extension of research: overcoming unknowns, learning constantly, and holding both a big responsibility and a great privilege. And neither science nor parenting is an individual endeavor. Whether you are giving a baby a bath or isolating mitochondria, teamwork is essential, and the list of collaborators can be quite long—including, in the case of parenting, partners, parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, and friends. As with the author list for a scientific paper, each of these players makes their own important contribution.

Advice from colleagues and mentors is also very important, although instead of conferences, parents have barbecues and get-togethers. These are usually not in distant and exotic places, but other than that, they are strikingly similar to scientific conferences: You get a chance to show your peers how your project—or baby—is progressing, exchange tips and experiences, and pave the way for future collaborations. And although learning about how others have handled similar situations or how they interpret certain signs is helpful, in the end, it is up to you to figure out how to solve each particular dilemma.

A slew of skills that I acquired while conducting my research—including being patient, learning how to do new things, and handling setbacks—are helping me more than I could have imagined in raising my baby. At a practical level, my experience learning new methodologies in the lab helped me unveil the secrets of diapering and bottle-feeding. The protocols are fairly simple and straightforward. The sterilization procedures are much more flexible than those used in the lab, and most of the items can be obtained over the counter. And I already knew how to open doors and work around the house with my hands full, because I often have to do it in the lab.

Of course, every time you start in a different field there is new vocabulary to learn (percentile, colostrum, meconium) and unfamiliar equipment to master—securing a car seat or folding a stroller can be more complicated than it seems. But that's also part of the fun. As for the vast literature devoted to parenting, discriminating reliable sources from misinformation can be daunting. Luckily, having spent a good number of hours with the scientific literature, I have learned to read everything with a healthy dose of skepticism.

But, without any doubt, the most useful thing that I've learned in the lab is the ability to cope with failure. When the baby is finally asleep in my arms and I put her in the crib and, holding my breath, leave the room on tiptoes, it feels almost natural to hear, a second later, a growing moan that turns into desperate sobbing. Knowing how to tame my frustration, make the best out of difficult situations, and get back on my feet are the things that I've found most helpful. That, and the conviction that the sum of what I've learned from all those small defeats is a valuable asset.

There is a Spanish proverb that says, 

“Patience is the mother of science,” and I think that I now understand how those three concepts—patience, parenting, and science—became so intertwined in the first place. Whether you are starting a Ph.D. or becoming a parent, patience and perseverance will serve you well. The rest will come, after a few sleepless nights.