1+5/2*3 carry the one-squared

 

            I’m not a fan of math, it was never my strong suit.  At 38, I’m still counting 7 +5 on my fingers, so I’ll never win any awards, but I find myself doing math every day just talking about my kids.

            It usually starts when I’m out at the store with some fraction of my 6 children.  I’ll be walking along with 3 of the girls, and someone will say, “What a beautiful family…3 girls?? You sure have your hands full!”  What I SHOULD do is smile graciously, and say something witty like “Why thank you, yes I do…this one here is up for adoption!”, while waving my hand wildly over all three.  Instead, I feel compelled to thank them and share that I have 3 others at home.  Without exception, I’m then asked “All girls?”  and that’s when the math starts.  “1 boy and 3 more girls.  I mean 1 boy and the rest are girls.  I mean that I have one son, and 5 daughters, and 3 of the girls are here with me. The boy is at home, eating 2 cans of spaghettios and the 3^rd daughter is with her Dad at the movies.  One girl, oh wait..two girls are probably watching a movie.  No, just the one..the rest are here with me.”  Right about then, the passerby is beginning to glaze over, and I awkwardly stop talking and smile grandly, as if I haven’t just run my mouth like a half-marathon.

            It gets worse.  We live in Orlando, so visits to the local attractions are fairly routine, but still hairy.  Try taking a family of 8 to a theme park.  Factor in the height requirements which leave certain kids out of the mix, add in a few phobias such as darkness, spiders, speed, anything ‘upsides down’ or loud noises, and I never know how many are in our group when the poor ride attendant asks.  I generally start spewing numbers in this fashion. “Umm. 7, I mean 8 with a baby.  No wait, 2 are sitting outside with Grandma” Someone yells from the back “Grandma’s right here!” and then I just say “We’ll take that whole row right there, thanks.”  Most of the time, the attendant agrees with that assessment, and waves us forward with some vague instructions of “Rows 1-6…whatever you want.”

            Forget about those buffets where they charge by children’s age.  Can you even imagine trying to negotiate the front register, let alone the depths of trying to get 6 children through the buffet line and served? No thank you.  “How many?” the cashier would ask me, and I think I’d just stare her down until she let us in for free.  Kind of like a really beneficial Jedi mind trick.  Who cares about getting into Mos Eisley when you can glide right through a Golden Corral?  Sadly, I’m not a Jedi, so the existence of buffet dining is unknown to my younglings.  Thankfully, trying to add up the collective years of my brood is math I can avoid for now.

            The one thing I don’t get to escape is shoe math.  Any Mom knows this one…but maybe not in quite the proportions of a large family.  We’re talking upper level algebra when we deal with shoes.  6 children. 1 pair dress shoes, 2 pairs of sneakers/casual shoes, 1-2 pairs of sandals or flip-flops, boots, specialty shoes required for activities, etc.. and it’s completely out of hand.  “Bill! I need 2 pairs of casual shoes for size 3 girls.  I have one half of 3 pairs of dress shoes here, so if we can find the square root of  shoeville, and factor it by 3, we just might be able to get a pair of sandals on Casadie, and the rest of the girls can wear their socks.”

            At least then, I can count 7 + 5 on 6 sets of toes.