I may be smarter than a fifth grader, but I’m definitely not smarter than a sixth grader. Maybe I can get a refund for all those years I spent in school.
My son came home with this math problem tonight and asked me for help. I looked at it, scratched my head a few times, and talked it through with him…talking things through with him is a secret weapon I employ when I don’t know the answer. Usually once I get him talking, he comes to the correct conclusion himself. Not this time. The problem had something to do with pie. Apple pie or cherry pie? That’s what I wanted to know.
I simply couldn’t remember how to work the equation, so I sent him to ask his father. FringeMan said, “I haven’t looked at a problem like this in thirty years. I have no idea how to do it.”
Ya, we definitely need a refund on that education, but it also tell me I was on to something in the tenth grade. I was certain I would never use the math I was learning, and so far, I’m right.
Hope my math teacher isn’t reading.
I only wish the teachers would photocopy the page with the instructions on it. That would help so much. If I can just get an explanation or see one problem solved, I can figure it out, but no luck.
I was never good at math anyhoo.
My son wants me to tell you a little story, not a math story. He thinks it’s funny. Me, not so much. FringeMan thinks it’s even less funny than I do.
We get no less than a thousand random papers coming home from school everyday. Public schools teach environmentalism starting in Kindergarten, but they kill more trees than all the loggers in Maine. True story. For the record, I’m not against logging. Loggers are very conscious of their surroundings. They live off the land; they love the land. They have lots of rules about where and how much they can take from a forest, so I believe little of the radical environmental propaganda that’s always spouted every time someone gets a hold of a microphone.
The other day my daughter brought home a pile of papers and I realized they were having a meeting for parents in the school library on Tuesday night. I was going and I planned on dragging FringeMan along, because I’m social. I like to do things in groups. I never outgrew my teenage years when I traveled in a pack.
I made dinner early. FringeMan came home early.
Just as we were about to walk out the door, I ran to get the paper to double-check the time. I’m famous for mixing up times, but I was 99.99% certain the meeting began at 6pm.
I was right. It was 6pm, but the meeting was last Tuesday. Ugh. It’s not even like the time I chicken danced my way into the slow-cooker. My daughter never gave me the paper on time. She was a week late.
So that’s my story. Not funny unless you’re twelve and my son, but I did think this was funny.