Math is truly a four letter word in our house.
I soared though school pretty much until Algebra.
Well, come to think of it, there was a rough patch in sixth grade when they introduced "new math" and no one, including the teachers, knew what the heck was going on. That's what we writers call foreshadowing. But I didn't know then. I was innocent in the evil ways of math.
But for the most part, real math - you know add this, subtract that, etc., made sense and I could do it if I paid careful attention.
In fact, I was responsible for an almost two million dollar budget and managed to keep it in the black. Peers even came to me asking for pointers on how to manage their budgets.
Poor, unsuspecting hopefuls. They had no idea how thin the ice was upon which they trod.
But the day I entered Algebra class was the day my ego took a horrific beating. I had suddenly entered a world where nothing made sense, and no matter how hard I tried, it still didn't make sense. I distinctly remember a test where I was confident I had gotten nine out of ten correct. When I got the test back, the one I thought was wrong was right and the ones I thought were right - well.
Husband hired himself a tutor to get through what math he was forced to take in college, and then simply erased it all from his mind as quickly as possible.
I had high hopes for Daughter. Perhaps this baby I held in my arms would be a math whiz and even be able to explain it all to dear old Mom and Dad.
Ha and Nah.
Daughter has a math class this semester. She thought she was done with math, but suddenly another one popped up like an unwanted pimple.
Gather hands right now, dear reader, and pray fervently that there will be a small break in the clouds for a short period of time so that Daughter can pass this math.
Then she, like her father, can wipe it from her mind and store things there that really matter.
Like texting.
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