Something about being a dismal failure as a Mom has me feeling a little down this morning.
Is it the fact that my son’s 5th grade math assignment appears to be written in some secret, anti-mother code leaving me feeling inept and completely void of brain function? Maybe it’s that I found such a BRILLIANT place to stash his Red Math Folder last week that there’s no way in flippin’ Hades that we’ll EVER find it so he can return it to his teacher. It COULD be that I realized that he wore the same pair of socks 2 days in a row … leaving me suspicious about his underwear!
I hate math. I’ve hated math since 7th grade when Mrs. Keyes humiliated me in front of the whole class over some stooopid fraction of a number that lacked the moxie to be a whole one. It wasn’t MY fault! It was the sad, tired, pathetic little handicapped numbers fault … all snivelly and crying like a baby, “Who will complete me? Whaa whaa whaa!”
Well, to Hell with ALL the fractions and their common denominators! Damn all the halves and three-quarters and whole-number wannabes that limp around on the pages of ugly old math books covered in boogers and snot stains! Maybe if they’d keep their smelly little hands and feet INSIDE the parenthesis, they wouldn’t get all busted up in little bits and pieces, forever separated from their disgusting other halves, or one-thirds or … whatever!
I think 5th grade math is mean. If 5th grade math had a birthday, I wouldn’t buy it a present. AND if 5th grade math had a party, I wouldn’t go. AND if 5th grade math DID have a party and didn’t invite me, I WOULD go and I would put a dead frog in a box and give it to 5th grade math as a present. But I’d break off one leg so that it was only a FRACTION of a dead frog.