Teens are finally old enough to use the hot glue gun

The other day I actually found an upside to parenting a teenager. I know, I know. It took a lot of time and research, but I think I’ve found it.
They do their homework themselves. Even the projects.
Oh, please. Don’t start telling me that your child was perfect and always did his own projects, even when he was 2 years old and in preschool. Seriously. Perhaps he did his own coloring in preschool, but I have been to third grade classrooms. I have seen Flat Stanley dioramas and I can tell you that in the entire history of third grade projects, no 8-year-old ever made a gorgeous Flat Stanley diorama complete with puffy paint, hot glue and perfect coloring with markers that were not washable without a great deal of parental … guidance.
I swear to you, this is true. Look, I know it for one reason. The non-washable markers always give you away. No parent in their right mind, or at least with a decent couch, allows a child to make a Flat Stanley diorama without using washable markers. It’s a parenting law. Seriously.
And then there is the hot glue. Hello? First of all, 8-year-olds and hot glue are a lethal combination. It’s like giving candy to a 2-year-old. Nobody does that because they know the outcome is going to be very, very bad – and possibly well outside the scope of your insurance, which in case you don’t know, doesn’t cover Acts of God and Acts of Parenting Idiocy. Just FYI.
And even assuming you have the most mature 8-year-old on the planet and you do allow that child to use the hot glue gun, you are right there supervising. And every parent knows that “supervising” is super-secret parent code for “I did some of it for her, but just the really scary parts. Like all of the gluing. And painting. And cutting Flat Stanley out because she kept running around the house trying to cut her sister’s bangs and her sister has never had bangs.”
Also? Teachers can tell when a parent provided guidance. Those strings of glue from the glue gun are all cleaned up.
And then there is the fourth grade, where all parents get the giant thrill of constructing a California Mission. (Side note: when my father was a boy, his parents took him on a thrilling family vacation to every single mission in California, using his aunt, a nun, as the tour guide. This explains why I, a person raised Catholic and educated in Catholic schools, had never seen a mission until I got lost in San Luis Obispo looking for a lingerie store.)
Anyway, the Mission project is huge. And you cannot tell me that a 9-year-old sits around the family table every single night hot gluing faux clay shingles to a faux mission roof. And if your child, like mine when he was in fourth grade, insists that his project must be made of wood, no parent on the planet says “Sure, here’s a saw and some plywood. Have fun.”
Yeah. That’s because it’s always fun to play with the saw until somebody loses a foot.
But for years now, I have not been gluing, sawing, coloring or painting. Yes, I have done some sewing – but mainly that was because I like my sewing machine and I want to keep it. But the distinct lack of projects in my parenting life is a huge upside for me – and not just because I shouldn’t be using a saw.  
Now, don’t get me wrong – getting a teenager to actually start the project is another issue – but once they get started, they do it themselves. Just them and Mr. Google. And every once in a while, a desperate Skype with a friend to help.
Totally an upside.