If you had to locate Finland on the map, would you bet your mortgage on your geography prowess? If you had to multiply fractions, could you figure out the answer without Googling “fractions” on the nearest Internet connection? If someone asked you to tell them the Jewish book of faith and also that religion’s most important holiday, would you be 100 percent confident in your response?
No. No. And heck no!
Welcome to sixth grade. My teacher for this class of hard knocks is my 11-year-old daughter. No matter if the subject is world geography, literature, science or math, I get a crash course in just how little I retained from my school daze.
But a funny thing happened over the last 20-plus years since my final college class—I might own a B.S. degree from North Texas (yeah, I know, B.S. is pretty appropriate, right?) but my ability to retain all this great information has sprung more leaks than the Titantic (what year did that happen again?). With every homework assignment that comes home, I am reminded that I’m not only not as smart as a sixth grader, but I’m not sure I’d pull B’s in elementary school either. Seriously, my first grader already knows PowerPoint.
Here’s a sample of a recent week in the life of the education of yours truly:
Monday night: While a single version of me would have been glued to the TV and Monday Night Football, I’m now reviewing Middle East countries, their capitals and significant bodies of water around them. Great stuff actually. With all that’s in the news every day on this turbulent region of the world, it’s high time I knew the difference between Oman and Yemen. In fact, an hour after my daughter went to bed I was still flipping through her World Geo book. Yes, I now know the exact location of Finland, Norway and Sweden. Test me, I dare you.
Tuesday night: It’s time to draw a Venn Diagram for a book my daughter recently finished about the occupation of Copenhagen during World War II. I’m not actually drawing the Venn Diagram. I’m just helping with comprehending what was read.
Wednesday night: Exploring area and perimeter of rectangles. Are you kidding me? If you pointed a revolver at my forehead and told me my life depended on figuring out the area and/or perimeter of a rectangle, I’d tell you to put me out of my misery. I hate math. Never was I very good at it. That’s why I’ve spent my career writing, editing, talking and selling stuff. But I do love learning math skills that I long ago forgot the nanosecond after I somehow passed the math final. In fact, I love learning everything, especially since there’s no pop quizzes, bubble sheets or GPA to worry about.
Thursday night: The little guy is working on his cursive writing. Yes, cursive writing is for some unexplained reason still taught to our children. When’s the last time you wrote a sentence in cursive? Unless you’re a copywriter for Hallmark, the only time anyone uses cursive is when you sign your name. When I look at my son’s guidebook, I’m amazed at how many cursive letters I haven’t a clue on how to construct. The capital Q is simply the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen since Sarah Palin’s Alaska. Exactly how much longer cursive will be taught in our schools in anyone’s guess. I’m thinking it’s short lived.
Friday night: High school football game. Finally, something I can get my head around. That is until my first grader asks me why the home team coaches continue to blitz the visitors despite the fact that the visitors consistently gain big chunks of yardage as a result. Once again, I’m stumped. My education continues . . .
