Math and I have never been close. English literature and I? Bosom buddies. But Math – not so much.
In my third year of law school I took a class called “Trusts & Estates.” Yes, it was just as thrilling as it sounds. We had to work out what percentage of an estate would go to each relative if a person died intestate (i.e. without a will). Like I said – riveting stuff!
Well, I was doing just fine until I had to convert a fraction to a decimal. Yes, you heard me right – even with a calculator – for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how to do it! And as a result, I got an A- instead of an A. I was not happy. I was extremely put out. I felt down right robbed! And I was just stupid enough to express these fine sentiments to our professor. I actually told the man that since instruction on how to convert fractions to decimals hadn’t been covered in his class I didn’t think it fair to dock my grade for something I hadn’t actually be taught how to do.
(This is the part of the story where my husband always hangs his head in shame). The professor looked at me with raised eyebrows and said in slow and measured tones dripping sarcasm, “Lisa-Jo, we just assume that anyone who has been accepted into law school has passed the fourth grade.” Yea, not my finest hour. Stupid math.
Over the years my legacy of mathematical faux pas has continued to grow. Last week was my crowning glory.
So there I am at my first pregnancy check-up expecting to see my eight week old bean with a precious little heart beat bouncing around on the sonogram screen. Instead, what do I see? People, I see a massive, full on baby with easily identifiable arms, legs, face, and it’s all kicking and whirling and swirling around.
My mouth drops open.
The doctor says, “Whoa – looks like more than 8 weeks to me.”
Fourteen weeks, people! I am fourteen weeks along already.
I am now officially handing over any addition, subtraction or multiplication necessary to baby producing, growing, or birthing to Peter. Let us never speak of this again.