And I realize this isn’t necessarily something that has to do with motherhood, but I’m going to spin it so it is.
Because all of the goodness I did not get with numbers I got with words. The little brother got the numbers gene and learned his multiplication tables at 4 years old. I learned to read Cinderella. At 4.
I still do math with my fingers. And apparently, my fingers are broken.
Case in point:
The background: Teacher’s once-a-month pay plan + a 15th and 30th pay plan = 5-week months get weird. (Do I get credit for writing a word problem there?)
Dan and I discussing bills and the budget for the end of the month:
me: well, it’s not pulled from the bank statement page yet, but I’ll mark it off
so then that’s good because we know more what we’re dealing with
we’ll have ~$400 in the bank
Dan: how you figure?
me: $645 – $140 is $400, estimated
shit I’m bad at math
Dan: hehme: whatever
Yeah. It really is that bad, people. The math, not the money.
(I mean, if a million dollars, or even a hundred, mysteriously found its way to my bank account? I would not complain. But who would?)
One day, I’m going to hear “Mama, can you help me with my homework?” And I’m going to see math problems on the page and run screaming for a tutor and my husband, all the while having hot flashes and cold flashes and flash card flashes and hives.
Math is just not my thing.
Now that he’s a “preschooler” (stupid Babycenter) how long do I have until I’m expected to teach him to add and/or subtract? And please know that that’s about as high as I want to go in the grand scheme of dealing with numbers.
Please tell me it’s a long, long time. And send wine. Because wine is always the answer. (Right?)