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Here’s a thought. It’s not a good idea to say openly at a table full of adults that you don’t know how to help your second-grader with his math homework.
It’s a bit shocking.
But I did it. And I’m regretting it. And I can’t get the look on my friend’s face out of my head.
JAW
ON
THE
FLOOR.
She was seriously staring at me with her mouth wide open. WIDE OPEN. She was stunned. She couldn’t hide it. Right in the middle of our nice dinner out … 8 of us … at a nice restaurant.
I tried to backtrack. It didn’t work.
Now I’m known as the loser girl who can’t do second-grade math.
My point was this: They’ve gone and changed math.
THEY CHANGED MATH. I swear! They have! I didn’t get it the first time around (obviously), and now they’ve gone and changed it.
When I did addition and subtraction, we did something I remember as “carrying the one” and “borrowing.” Well … they don’t do that anymore. Well, they do. They just don’t call it that. They call it “regrouping.”
Aha.
And then my son tells me he needs to study his “math facts.” What the hell are math facts? THIS ONE STILL CONFUSES ME. To me, it’s simply addition. To him and his teacher, it’s math facts. But then, on the same page that reads MATH FACTS at the top, there’s something about algebra. Yes. ALGEBRA.
No wonder I’m confused.
5+_____=10
Hmm. Seems like 5 to me.
Simple addition, right?
RIGHT?
THEN WHY’S it called MATH FACTS?
And why’s the word ALGEBRA attached to this worksheet?
Just seeing that word still makes me break out in a cold sweat, obviously.
Dad needs to step in. How lame is that? I AM LAME!
My friends think I’m lame!
I swear I know the answer. It’s 5, dammit! IT’S FIVE!
WHY’S IT GOTTA BE CALLED ALGEBRA OR MATH FACTS? JUST TO THROW ME? JUST TO MAKE ME LOOK STOOOPID IN FRONT OF MY KIDS?
Well. It worked. I’m in Loserville.
MATH MORON LOSER HELL.
My face is on the Welcome sign. Agh.
For the record, I knew the answer. I KNEW IT. I’m so proud of myself…
So just as it always does, life creeps up and smacks me in the face. It’s always something.
Right now as I type this, I should be doing other things. Like laundry. Dishes. Bathing children. Reading to children. Playing with children. Shaving my legs. Plucking my eyebrows. Cleaning out the garage. But instead I’m sitting here typing this because my life is so hysterical I need to write it all down so I can cheer myself up when I’d wallowing in my own misery.
Little Man is whining. He just climbed up on my lap, pulled my shirt down, looked at my chest and laughed out loud. HE LAUGHED OUT LOUD. Nice. He’s 2. He even knows Mama’s not lookin’ so hot lately. Thanks for the reminder, babe. Part of that problem was caused by you, you know.
Someone’s car alarm has been going off for about a half hour across the street at the high school. I might take a bat and head over there any minute now.
Speaking of bats, Little Man just jumped down from my lap and is hitting a miniature souvenir Louisville Slugger bat (the ones you get at the museum) against the floor, trying to hit these metal balls around the house. His version of baseball golf, I suppose.
Middle Man came out a few minutes ago and said his butt itches.
Our oldest stayed home today because he’s been having bad asthma attacks. Doc says he has to stay home again tomorrow. When he’s not nebulizing his brains out on the couch, he’s whining and wheezing and coughing and moaning and complaining and asking if he can play Wii.
Something stinks in the fridge. I can’t find it. It’s like the time a couple months ago when I smelled something in Little Man’s room and swore it had to be a runaway sippy cup filled with curdled milk. I was looking ALL OVER THAT FREAKIN’ ROOM for the smell. Nothing. I emptied the toy box not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES looking for what was causing the rank stench. I thought maybe it wasn’t a sippy cup, but instead a dirty diaper that ended up in the bedroom instead of the trash. I WAS LITERALLY SMASHING MY FACE AGAINST THE WALLS AND RUNNING MY FACE UP AND DOWN, SNIFFING THE WALLS.
Yes.
I was SNIFFING THE WALLS.
Then, holy hell. It hit me. I pulled out an outlet cover and about fell over backwards at the nasty smell of DEATH that blew into my face.
SOMETHING WAS DEAD IN BETWEEN THE WALLS.
Now I have a stench in the fridge. Nothing seems out of place or old. SO … hmm. Another mystery.
The drain in our shower isn’t draining well at all.
I need to dust so the dust bunnies aren’t crawling up our oldest son’s nose to make him more irritated and asthma-attacky (that’s my new phrase).
Car alarm finally stopped.
Timer on the microwave is blinking END.
Gotta go do something more productive than this.
… Middle Man is begging me to put this one on here.
Middle Man is 5. Here’s what he’s telling me as I type this. He has no idea I’m about to document this conversation, by the way.
“When you’re a ninja, you pretty much have to stay hydrated with a whole bottle of water.
You eat apples and bananas and they eat a lot of fruit cause fruit is healthy.
They eat fish, too, to get you strong. And chicken, too. And beef. That’s all they eat. And they drink water.
I don’t want to be a ninja like Max in my class. He told me that stuff. I like to eat snacks. When I grow up, I’m not going to be anything. I want to go on vacations to anywhere I want, like the zoo and stuff. If I don’t work, I can go to the zoo anytime.”
And for the record, when we DO go to the zoo, HE’S BORED OUT OF HIS MIND. So I have NO IDEA where this is coming from.
