A father’s work…

I have really enjoyed helping four teenaged kids do their homework every night.  I think I may have mentioned that before but the enjoyment continues.  It is nice that I still understand the concepts they are learning, or at least can look at a problem and help them figure out how to resolve it.  It is the teacher in me coming out.  Last night was no exception.

Our oldest boy was struggling with some math problems because he had the answer from the back of the book but he could not make his answer match.  The problems were about distributing a negative through an equation, and I remember this being a hard concept to grasp and to master.  I wanted to teach him the concept – I felt it was important for him to understand the mechanisms involved.

I showed him how I would work the problem, and came up with the same answer as in the back of the book.  This young man was frustrated because I did not do the problem the way his teacher showed them on the board and he was convinced that my method was flawed.  We backed up and I tried to show him WHY looking at 28 –(x-17-9) as 28 + -1(x-17-9) is not only valid, but helpful, but he would not believe that I knew as much as his teacher.  Eventually his frustration, not that he could not understand what I was doing, but that my way actually worked, was too much for him and he told me he did not need any more help.  Obviously, cramming the facts down his throat would not help so I left him and got myself ready for bed.

Before turning out the light for the evening, I went back down stairs on the pretense that I needed a glass of water.  I found two kids still working away at the kitchen table and both eager for help.  One of them was my boy who had spent the time that I was gone reworking all of his problems ‘my way’ and finding that not only could he get the right answer, but that he could get the answer in half the time.  “So, I guess your way works after all” he said.  He wanted my help again as he worked some story problems.

The other child at the table was working on a dissection of The Alchemist.  She thought for sure I was an expert simply because I have a first American edition of this book, and because I told her to read it a couple of years ago.  The fact that I was aware of this book, had a collectible copy, had read it, and had recognized the value of this book when I recommended it to her was proof enough of my intellect that she pressed me for my thoughts.  Unfortunately, my memory about how I felt while reading the book is better than my memory of characters or events.

It was ping-pong for a while, with both kids lobbing questions at me and expecting me to return them, but I managed to score enough points with both that they felt they could finish up on their own.

I went to bed feeling like I was playing the part of a good dad.  It was a pleasant feeling and I slept well.  This leaves me asking the question:  Why does it take so much work to get a good night’s sleep?

 

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  One Man