Mustering up confidence, I walk over to the computer where my son is working on math.
"Mom, this story problem doesn't make sense."
He doesn't realize the problem may make no more sense to me than him. After a few minutes, he scrunches his nose and with eyebrows knitted together he asks, "So, what does it mean?" After reading it three times, I finally think I can provide the help he needs.
"Can we pick Josh up? He needs a ride also." My daughter asks, hardly looking up from her phone.
Simple request, after all, he lives only a few minutes away. Yet somehow I manage to make two wrong turns and cannot quite picture which direction is most logical route. My cheeks burn and I can feel teenage eyes that say, "Mom, seriously?" drilling holes in the side of my head.
"Kaaaa.....Ahhhhh.....Ta...Ta....KaaaAhhhhhTa....CAT." Exhausted from staring at the same three letters, my daughter wipes a tear and I silently sigh to myself thinking "finally". It was an easy word and one she seemed to be abel to read just the day before.
Perhaps it wasn't easy to her. Maybe, just maybe, she felt like I did when I had to read that story problem or when I made a few wrong terms. Was she hearing the same internal dialogue I heard telling me something was wrong with me because it should be easy?
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