I didn’t expect it to happen quite so soon. By my calculations, I figured that I’d have till he was in seventh grade. But as usual, my calculations proved to be wildly inaccurate. When my fourth-grader uttered those seemingly innocent words, “Mom, can you help me with my math
homework?” little did I know the trauma that would follow for me.

Helping with homework hadn’t been a problem so far. After school, we’d sit at the kitchen table and tackle the day’s assignments. I learned the hard way to get the homework going as soon as we walked in the door. Let me tell you from experience that discovering at 7 a.m. that your child
was supposed to construct a model of a working volcano, complete with eruptions and a written report, is not a pleasant way to start the day.

Fourth graders at my son’s school use a daily planner, probably more for the benefit of the parents, but a concept which I heartily applaud. It helps us make sure the assigned tasks completed in a timely fashion with a minimum of
hysteria. So when I opened the planner to read “do worksheet” scrawled under the math heading, I wasn’t concerned.

He retrieved the worksheet from his folder. After completing a few problems, he uttered those fateful words. “Let’s take a look,” I said confidently exuding that naïve, “Of Course, I Know The Answer,” parental confidence. Jill is 10 years older than Jack. Next year, she will be twice as old as Jack. How old are they now? My brain started to seize up. This
was no ordinary story problem; this was the dreaded algebraic equation.  Math and I do not have a happy history. I’ve never let on this fact to my kids. I don’t want to taint their view of the world of numbers. But frankly, I hate it. I’d rather shave my head than attempt to balance my
checkbook (a task which I have not successfully completed since George’s daddy was president). I perform no bank-related mathematical task without sharpened #2 pencils with erasers, a multi-function calculator and my accountant.

I can trace my sheer terror of math back to fourth grade. Mrs. DePew laughed as I stood sweating at the chalkboard in front of the class, struggling with a daunting long division problem. “It seems Denise can’t remember what I just taught, class,” she clucked with glee. “Who can show her how to do the problem correctly?” Miss Smarty Pants and class brown-noser, Karen Pierce’s hand shot up. She swaggered to the board, removed the chalk from my fingers in one swift motion and began working at the board with a ferocity that sounded like she was tapping out Morse code.
And, as always, Karen’s answer was correct.

At that moment, the lobe responsible for numerical operations shriveled to the size of a raisin and has remained inert ever since. Not once since that day have I approached a mathematical equation with anything but dread, sweaty palms and heart palpitations. Personally, I prefer words, I do not fear them. I embrace them. I love those 26 little letters that can be joined in any number of silly, stern or
sarcastic combinations. They are like little toys, just downright fun to play with.