You don’t have to know me very well to figure out I can’t do math. I don’t feel bad about it. I take pride in being more right brain. (Or is it left brain? I get confused. I think that’s a sign of right brain tendencies.) Anyway, I’m creative. Not mathematical. So be it.
Still, it’s difficult living with a very mathematical man. And I imagine it’s hard on him, too, especially since our kids take after me. If it weren’t for Mr. Mom, all of us would flunk math. No kidding. He not only tutors the kids, he got me through the two statistics courses I had to take last year as part of my master’s degree.
Most of the time I shrug it off. Only one night not that long ago, well . . . there was no graceful way to exit the shambles of my complete ineptitude.
It was a Wednesday night. We love “church night.” Ever since we moved to Mayberry, our kids have been very active in a church youth group. Mr. Mom and I, however, choose this quiet time to stay home and, ahem, “minister” to each other.
I try to leave my desk at 5:00 so I can get home no later than 6:00. The kids don’t get home from church until around 7:30, so if life cooperates, Mr. Mom and I have an hour or more to converse, catch-up, “minister” to each other as the only two souls in a quiet house. But recently, Kate’s been having a hard time in math. So much so that we feared her grade might slip below a “C” and cause her to fail. I had just checked her grades online and was more than a little distressed when I got home that evening. Still, I’m a master multi-tasker so I figured Mr. Mom and I could discuss remedies while otherwise taking advantage of our time alone. Only I lost track of time. And right after debating the pros and cons of Kumon math and bemoaning poor Kate’s fate as the daughter of a math invalid, I looked at the clock and realized time had nearly slipped away from us.
“Uh oh,” I told Mr. Mom. “You’ve got eight minutes.”
Never one to shy away from a challenge, he stepped up to the plate. After hitting a home run, he inquired about the time.
“Oops,” I said, glancing at the clock. “You went three minutes over. “ And before he could crack wise, I decided to beat him to the punch line. “But don’t worry,” I added. “It was still the best 13 minutes of my day.”
Mr. Mom went stone-faced. A little uncharitable, I thought, considering I had proffered both a favor and a compliment.
“Um, honey” he deadpanned. “Eight and three are eleven.”
