Why Math Makes Me Sad

I entered elementary school in the 1980’s and "new math" was all the rage. Times tables and memorization were tossed out the window, and arithmetic was taught solely by using little yellow blocks.

See? Math.

I didn’t get the point of those little yellow blocks. Were we to construct buildings? A small fort, perhaps? Certainly they had nothing to do with numbers. Consequently, after two years worth of math, I didn’t understand basic arithmetic operations.

Mom was dismayed to find we no longer learned times-tables. Her theory was that kids need to know the times-tables - even if they didn’t understand what they meant - so they could quickly recall the facts in “real life” situations. She drilled me with flash cards all summer until I completely mastered the times-tables forwards and backwards.

It worked. From thereon out I was placed in the advanced math track, all because of those flashcards. However, I figured if Mom made me do flash cards all summer to supplement what I should’ve learned in school, I must be really bad at math.

Math was thankfully benign over the next 6 years or so. But then came geometry... trigonometry... precalculus... calculus and things went downhill.

Uh-oh! She's struggling with math again!

Calculus especially became the bane of my existence. I was too proud to ask for help, but too stupid to know the answers. I was clearly bad at math. Would there be more flashcards?

Later, when I took my college entrance exams, I was somehow deemed qualified to skip pre-calculus and head straight to calculus. Calculus went well for a day and a half, but then they started using pictures.

It's a rainbow tent! Wait, that's math? Oops.

And then they started using big words.

This message was clearly forged by Lucifer himself.

I was in over my head. Once again, I proved to be too stupid to learn math. I studied every single day with the help of a teaching assistant with a thick Bulgarian accent. I ended up with a D.

I was very proud of that D. It meant I didn’t fail. And I never took math again.

Huzzah!

It wasn’t until I was 21 that I realized, despite the need for flashcards, I wasn’t bad at math - I was good at math. Or at least competent.

Lesson learned: flashcards are good for math. But bad for self-esteem.

We will destroy your soul.

Free-Range Chickens

When I was growing up it was common for neighborhood kids to spontaneously get together and run amok around the neighborhood.

Even when Best Friend broke her arm roughhousing, it wasn’t a major call for alarm. Basically we were advised not to be so stupid in the future.

When I was about 5, I got separated from Mom in a department store. I freaked out, mostly because I was afraid she’d leave the store without me and I’d have to live in Kohl’s FOREVER. Fortunately, I knew enough to find a clerk who helped me find my mom (she was only about 5 feet away).

By age 8 or 9 Mom let me browse the toy department (and later clothes department), while she did the shopping. After all, I was well-behaved.

What would happen now if I, as a parent, let my tween browse for toys or clothes or shoes at a department store while I shopped for bras and underwear in the same store?

Obviously if my child was being a pain in the ass, we’d both be shunned by employees and shoppers alike. But even if my child was well-mannered, I fear I’d still be shunned for leaving my tween alone and unsupervised.

I want my children to have the same freedoms I had as a child. I want to raise “free-range kids.”

No, not these.

After all, crime rates have continued to fall over the past 10 years - and this includes crimes against children. And kids are significantly more likely to be abducted by family members, than by strangers. I’m more afraid of other parents’ sky-is-falling reactions than I am of child abduction or molestation.

My children are 3 and 1, so I can’t let them fly the coop yet. But soon enough I will. Because independence should be their decision, not just mine. Because freedom to roam fosters self-reliance.

Safety is important. But so is common sense. Parenting requires balance. Which makes me wonder: Who are the real free-range chickens here?

Balancing Act

The princesses have descended upon my household.

Since she was born, Preschooler was exposed to a wide variety of toys; dolls, tea sets, dress-up, but also cars, trucks, and trains. And she played pretty equally with all of them.

But lately, it’s princesses, princesses, princesses. All her dress-up involves princesses. All her dolls are princesses. All day she pretends she’s a princess (except for the days she pretends she’s an airplane). Even when she pretends to be a doctor, one of her favorite activities, she is now a princess doctor.

And her cars, trucks, and trains are starting to see less and less playtime.

I know that many mothers before me have struggled with, and blogged about, how to raise children while avoiding gender stereotypes, expectations, and restrictions. Well, now it’s my turn.

I don’t know how to respond to this new-found obsession with princesses. I want to raise my girls the way I was raised, to know that I do not have to be limited or defined by my gender.

At the same time, to be honest, all my favorite childhood activities were “girly” activities. I loved Barbies. I loved dresses. I declined opportunities to play soccer or softball in favor of dancing ballet. And I turned out ok.

Because even though Best Friend and I played Barbies every single day one memorable summer, the Barbies usually dressed in their ball gowns and then became astronauts who explored distant galaxies.

And when I struggled with math class, I knew that my struggles had nothing to do with being a girl.

And thanks to the efforts of countless women before me, I took for granted that my high school had both a boy's basketball team and a girl's basketball team.

Perhaps it’s all about balance. Because thousands of women before me fought for, marched for, strove for women's rights, I can offer my child a choice. Barbie dolls or basketballs - it’s up to her.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle. I Want To Ride My Bi-ike

When I was 5 or 6, it was decided that I should learn to ride a bike. My parents got me a bike with training wheels, and I spent a month or two happily pedaling around the neighborhood.

But it soon came to my attention that all the cool kids rode bikes without training wheels. I knew I couldn’t lose the tenuous grip I had on coolness, so I asked Dad to remove the training wheels and teach me to ride a bike.

Dad was pretty jazzed with this idea. After all, I was not a particularly athletic child, so my parents encouraged any form of physical activity I showed an interest in.

Now, my house sat on top of a steep hill. Across the street from my house was a second steep hill going through a wooded field and ending with a small marshy pond. For those who need a visual, I offer the following crappy drawing:


The day came where I was ready to take my first stab at riding a two-wheeler. Dad took the training wheels off the bike. I sat on the seat quivering with anticipation. I was going to be the best bike rider ever.

Dad set me on top of our driveway. I looked down. It was steep, but I’d just walk astride my bike to the road, and practice riding on the level surface of the road, right? Right?

Alas, that was not the plan. I got on the bike, but instead of being carefully lead down the driveway, my Dad simply gave me a push. As I flew down down the hill of despair, I think I heard Dad’s voice echo “There you go sweetie! WHEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

I hurtled past the hill of despair and straight through the hill of doom, ending somewhere in the marsh of despair and pond of woe. I certainly had scrapes and bruises. And I didn’t touch a bike again for three years.

Preschooler got a bike for her birthday. She refuses to ride it. She says the helmet hurts. The bike was placed in the living room with hopes she might be inspired to ride it before winter sinks in.

Today I stepped on the bike and sprained my foot.

Damn bikes.

A Weighty Issue

I questioned whether to even publish this post. It seems whiny and self-indulgent. But, for the sake of the honesty and transparency I committed myself to when I started this blog, here it goes.

I’ve gained 40 pounds since my wedding. Twenty pounds with each child. With my first child I really thought that I needed to eat ice cream and Taco Bell each day. So I did. I once made my husband cross 3 lanes of traffic to get to Taco Bell so I could have a 7-Layer Burrito.

By the time my body fully recovered from that first pregnancy, I gained twenty pounds.

Ashamed of my gluttony during my first pregnancy, I resolved to eat better the second time around. For the first twenty weeks I did great. I threw up everything I ate and lost 10 pounds. And although I was put on limited activity for my entire third trimester, my weight gain was very healthy.

I still gained twenty pounds.

God Bless Husband, who truly believes I’ve only become more beautiful.

I’ve been in denial about my weight gain. I reasoned that since I can button up my pants (regardless of the blubber spilling over), that I’m doing ok. I reasoned that since I’ve got an hourglass figure, I look voluptuous, not fat. I simply stopped picturing what I looked like from the shoulders down, preferring to imagine what I used to look like.

I don’t look voluptuous. I’m not big boned and I’m not tall. I’ve got to much fat on a frame not sized to hold it all. I look out-of-shape. I look slovenly. I looked up my BMI and I’m well into the overweight range.

Is this what people think whenever they look at me?

I can’t keep denying this. It’s so easy to ignore the truth.

I was a skinny child. Not just little, skinny. I was a slender young adult. I never had to worry about my weight. I ate reasonably, indulged when I wanted, stayed moderately active, and everything was fine.

Not so much anymore. I still eat reasonably, and only indulge occasionally, but even so, I’m always hungry. Despite eating three healthy meals a day, I’m ravenous by 8 pm, and need a substantial snack (like a bowl of cereal) to feel full enough to sleep.

Just chasing and hauling my two kids around our 2-story home all day isn’t enough. I haven’t exercised regularly since 2007. Working bizarre hours at a full-time job and taking care of two babies drained me of time and energy.

And I’m tired of this. I’m tired of hating my appearance. I’m tired of feeling old and worn out.

So yesterday I joined a gym.

It is less than 10 minutes from my house. It has free childcare.

I’m excited to get going. Just because I haven’t been doing it doesn’t mean I don’t like exercise. It’s incredibly good for my mental health. Sweat and stress seem to drain from my body; I feel physically and mentally detoxified.

But I can’t seem to defend myself against the critic inside that says “You’re fat and there’s nothing you can do about it.” It’s the same critic that silenced me all my life - “If you aren’t naturally wonderful at this, you are a failure and there’s nothing that can be done to exonerate you for this.”

I know I will never look like I did pre-pregnancy. But I’m hoping to at least love myself the way I look now.

Why Lifting Weights Is The Source Of My Everlasting Shame

I sucked at gym class.

Maybe it was because it wasn’t until I was 18 that some one finally told me in order to catch a ball I actually had to be looking at it, rather than holding my hands hopefully out in the air, while cringing in the other direction with my eyes squeezed shut.

Maybe it was because even after a 6 week course and the personal assistance of 3 individual gym teachers, I still couldn’t bowl over a 37.

Maybe it was because I could never remember which direction to run in basketball, or baseball, or soccer, and because I could never figure out why someone would want to put their body between the floor and a volleyball hurtling towards them like a death-sphere.

But maybe, just maybe, it was because of this...

My high school had a football team. That means we had a special room full of weights and cardiovascular equipment. That also meant we didn’t have textbooks that knew of the Korean War or sometimes even classrooms with real walls.

And thanks to this weight room, we had to do circuit training.

Now before I can go further, I must explain that I have eczema. Horrible ugly itchy eczema that I’d itch until it bled. Seriously, bleeding was better than the itchiness.

One day the class was doing circuit training and I was doing “circuit training” (i.e. sitting on the equipment and trying to look like I knew what I was doing.) At some point I had absentmindedly scratched at my leg, and unknowingly left a small drop of blood on the seat of some bench-pressing-torture-device contraption.

Gym Teacher noticed and FLIPPED OUT, screaming about how dirty and filthy this was and how this is how people get HIV/AIDS and maybe even ebola or monkey pox or dysentery. WHO KNEW? Meanwhile I tried to harness my powers of invisibility.

Just as I could feel my molecules becoming noticeably more opaque, one boy, who I’ve known ever since kindergarten and was kind of a bad ass in a scrawny fifteen-year-old boy sort of way, looked straight at me and silently mouthed with a smirk, “I KNOW IT WAS YOU-OU!”

Except to me it sounded more like this:



Now, I know Gym Teacher was right - blood is gross. But to my defense, we weren’t given time to properly wipe down the equipment in-between circuits.

Yeah, gym class sucked.

Tricks of the Trade - Now With A Free Sample Of Humility

My new best friend is a carpet Shark.

No, not this:



Or this:


Or this:


This:



I learned of this brilliant invention when I was at my sister’s house one day for lunch. After the Babies finished their meal, she nonchalantly pulled out one of these beauties and effortlessly started sweeping up mac ‘n cheese, Cheerios, and other assorted crumbs. (I swear, I’m not being paid to write this. Really.)

“OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed. “What is that wonderful thing?”

“A carpet shark,” she said. “Don’t you have one?”

Ummm...NO.

She got me a Shark as a housewarming gift. It’s been my constant companion ever since.

Honestly, before we had kids Husband and I were child-rearing snobs. My child will never eat frozen chicken nuggets. My child will never watch DVD’s in the car. Fruit cocktail is not a fruit.

But with each passing month, we learned how judgmental we were, how ridiculous we were behaving. There is a place in the world for chicken nuggets and fruit cocktail. It’s ok to keep Dora on an endless loop during a 10-hour car ride if it means we reach our destination intact.

It is incredibly difficult to admit I was wrong.

We, all us parents, are just trying to get along one day at a time.

Sometimes there is no right or wrong, just what’s right for your family at this moment.

So is there anything out there, besides experience and self-reflection, that will make me realize when I’m being a judgmental idiot? Maybe something like a unicorn that pokes me in the backside when I do wrong, but snorts glitter and rainbows out of its nose when I do right?

Because that would be awesome.