The head of Zoe's Math Center helped her with factoring trinomials on Tuesday. She gave her a college algebra book that has almost 100 problems for each way of factoring. She thinks the best way to really learn how to factor trinomials is to just do a lot of them. I think Zoe has it down because she did 20 problems in half an hour yesterday and got them all correct.
I so grateful that Zoe seems to have inherited Pere's math talent rather than my math anxiety.
I am not sure what my problem was. When I think back I remember feeling rushed all the time. Part of my reputation as the "smart girl" in class was always finishing my in class work first. The faster I got it done the smarter I felt. And, it wasn't like I did a half ass job either. I did it quick and I did it well. All the Humanities came easily to me, and, for awhile, so did math and science.
But, there were times when I couldn't be right and first in math and that made me feel anxious and stupid. I got all choked up and some part of my brain would just shut down, out of fear.
I never learned that it was okay to spend a long time trying to figure out a math problem. I thought that if the answer didn't pop into my head immediately then I was "bad" at math. I hadn't really been bad at anything before and it threw me for a loop.
I can kind of see some of that same attitude in Zoe. She will say a type of problem is "really hard" but I maintain that if you can do a whole page of problems and get 90% of then correct, then it is probably not too hard. That seems the appropriate level of challenge to me.
I have made an effort let Zoe spend a lot of time on one problem. I want her to get the idea that the answer is there, and she is allowed to take the time she needs to find it.
Life of Fred Algebra is interesting because in almost each set of problems there is a problem that the book hasn't covered yet. There is really no reason she would know how to solve the problem. It was really frustrating at first. But, now we expect them and I use them to give her the experience of searching and trying and getting things wrong and trying again and utilizing her resources to find the answer (her resources are the book, the internet, me, her dad and Math Center tutors)
Zoe is a very quick learner in math. She had no problem with long division or fractions. She is zipping through algebra pretty handily too. So I think these challenging questions are really helpful. I am hoping she wont be afraid like I was (sometimes still am). I am hoping she learns that math isn't about being first. I hope she can learn to enjoy the mystery and the hunt and not run away when things aren't easy.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Homeschooling today and Rebecca.
Zoe wanted to use different materials to homeschool today.
So we read about prime and irrational numbers in her Cool Math book. Zoe says "Pi is my favorite irrational number."
We read poetry by Shakespeare, William Blake, Wordsworth and Elizabeth Barret Browning. Zoe loved E.B.B.'s Sonnets from the Portuguese.
She read a Horrible History about Wicked Words to me. Balderdash means cheap bad wine.
For science we tried to use our deductive skills to solve some crimes from her Solve It book.
Then she practiced kanji, read about Mozart's father, read Huckleberry Finn, practiced the piano for 45 minutes and made a Mud Pie Feast out in the yard with eight different dishes.
She helped her father make Charoset (minced apples, walnuts and wine.) She set the table for Passover and read about 1/3 of the Haggadah, including lots of Hebrew.
Since we told her that her grandmother's brain cancer has worsened Zoe has been carrying around the American Girl doll, Rebecca, that Anne bought her for Hanukkah last year. Rebecca is now her "daughter" and Zoe is bringing her to meals and Rebecca is joining us for homeschooling and she now holds an exalted place among the other AG dolls. I am not sure what is going on there but I imagine that Zoe might be giving the love to her doll that she wishes she could be giving her grandmother.
So we read about prime and irrational numbers in her Cool Math book. Zoe says "Pi is my favorite irrational number."
We read poetry by Shakespeare, William Blake, Wordsworth and Elizabeth Barret Browning. Zoe loved E.B.B.'s Sonnets from the Portuguese.
She read a Horrible History about Wicked Words to me. Balderdash means cheap bad wine.
For science we tried to use our deductive skills to solve some crimes from her Solve It book.
Then she practiced kanji, read about Mozart's father, read Huckleberry Finn, practiced the piano for 45 minutes and made a Mud Pie Feast out in the yard with eight different dishes.
She helped her father make Charoset (minced apples, walnuts and wine.) She set the table for Passover and read about 1/3 of the Haggadah, including lots of Hebrew.
Since we told her that her grandmother's brain cancer has worsened Zoe has been carrying around the American Girl doll, Rebecca, that Anne bought her for Hanukkah last year. Rebecca is now her "daughter" and Zoe is bringing her to meals and Rebecca is joining us for homeschooling and she now holds an exalted place among the other AG dolls. I am not sure what is going on there but I imagine that Zoe might be giving the love to her doll that she wishes she could be giving her grandmother.
My girl
Dissecting a crawfish.
Dressed up for her piano competition. She score in the very superior range with a 91%
Doing her online Music History class
Dressed as Queen Ester for Purim
Dressed up for her piano competition. She score in the very superior range with a 91%
Doing her online Music History class
Dressed as Queen Ester for Purim
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Very mathy weekend
Saturday our downtown had an Easter Festival and the Math Center participated by developing a Math Trail, which was an activity sheet with math questions to do at different downtown businesses.
Zoe is was conscientious player, she wanted to do all the problems and do them by herself, though we did help her count the Fleur de Lys at the New Orleans style coffee shop. There were a over 600.
She designed a protective shell for an egg and dropped it from 12' high, and the egg didn't break! Then she got to throw the egg at a physics student from the local college. After that exciting event the physics students showed her the math behind her egg drop.
She was the last kid to finish, just 15 minutes before the closing of the last shop, though we also started really late. For a prize, the bakery gave her a giant brownie, a cupcake and three cookies.
Today Zoe was at Math Center for three hours. She worked on the video game she is programming in JAVA and the community project about fractional bases. She told me she was very proud because she was chosen to be one of two student teachers and teach the other kids binary.
She noted that today she was the only girl working on the community project. I pointed out that the leader of the math center is a woman. Zoe and I talked about why women are underrepresented in math professions.
She told me that she doesn't think she will succumb to peer pressure and drop her interest in math because she already stands out in her Hebrew class as one of the best students as well as the only kid who says they like learning Hebrew and she said, "I am not going to change. I don't care about fitting in or not fitting it. I just am what I am."
I hope she retains that strong sense of self when she gets to her middle school years.
Zoe is was conscientious player, she wanted to do all the problems and do them by herself, though we did help her count the Fleur de Lys at the New Orleans style coffee shop. There were a over 600.
She designed a protective shell for an egg and dropped it from 12' high, and the egg didn't break! Then she got to throw the egg at a physics student from the local college. After that exciting event the physics students showed her the math behind her egg drop.
She was the last kid to finish, just 15 minutes before the closing of the last shop, though we also started really late. For a prize, the bakery gave her a giant brownie, a cupcake and three cookies.
Today Zoe was at Math Center for three hours. She worked on the video game she is programming in JAVA and the community project about fractional bases. She told me she was very proud because she was chosen to be one of two student teachers and teach the other kids binary.
She noted that today she was the only girl working on the community project. I pointed out that the leader of the math center is a woman. Zoe and I talked about why women are underrepresented in math professions.
She told me that she doesn't think she will succumb to peer pressure and drop her interest in math because she already stands out in her Hebrew class as one of the best students as well as the only kid who says they like learning Hebrew and she said, "I am not going to change. I don't care about fitting in or not fitting it. I just am what I am."
I hope she retains that strong sense of self when she gets to her middle school years.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Why I could write
Yesterday Pere asked me what made me finally decide to write my book. I have been thinking of it and developing it in my head for at least eight years.
I decided I could write when I stopped talking to my mother and went to therapy.
See, I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember thinking about things like that. Actually, most of the time I was a storyteller rather than a writer. It is hard to write when you are riding your bicycle or wandering through the woods. I made up stories all the time, for far longer than most people do.
I wanted to be Kurt Vonnegut or Jack Kerouac. I even smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. But before that I was a little girl with a prodigious vocabulary who wanted to be a writer. And I would read my stories to my ever loving (yeah, right) mother. I still remember what she said because she sliced each letter of each word was into my heart with a razor. I still have the scars.
I know it wont sound like much. But I thought my mom loved me and I thought she was right. So when she read one of my little handwritten stories and she said "You should learn to type so you have something to fall back on when this writing thing doesn't work out." I was devastated.
Think about that. Who says that to a young person? And she wasn't joking. She wasn't being playful. She took my childhood dream and she told me that it wasn't going to work out. And not only that, she told me that I should set my sights lower, like being a secretary.
Some of you who read this might not be parents, but you might have interacted with children. If young child said they wanted to be an artist and showed you their drawing, would you just say "Oh! What a lovely drawing!" Any normal person could at least muster fake support.
If the drawing really was quite nice for the child's age you might say something more specific like, "Wow! That is a very realistic looking cat. My, my, you are going to be artist someday." If the picture was just some terrible scribbling you are still obliged to say, "Very nice!"
Parents are supposed to be biased towards their children. Parents are supposed to think their children are pretty darn great and possibly the best child ever. Some parents don't, of course. But does the child ever think it is the parent who is wrong? No. Children who are burdened with a parent who doesn't see them as extra special or worse, doesn't even love them end up thinking that they are nothing special and not lovable.
None of the praise I got at school, from friends, and from strangers who read my writing ever kissed away the hurt my mother caused me by telling me that I wasn't good enough and that I needed to set my sights much MUCH lower.
I had so many other scars that said I was not pretty, too skinny, and later too fat, that I was a mean horrible person, that I was a fool, that I was laughable, forgettable, and unlovable. And every time I went to her with my heart in my hand and asked 'Am I good enough now, Mom?" and she say "Of course not" those old wounds would reopen and bleed.
Then, when my own daughter was eight and a half, I realized that no mother, no normal mother would tell their child, who dreamed of being a writer, that their childish storytelling was so bad that they should give up now and set their sights on being a secretary.
I had to stop taking my heart to my mother and allowing her to stomp on it to be able to write. I had to see what a crazy f'ed up bitch she is to write.
It is a daily struggle to write. All the scars are still there and I can't tell you if they will ever go away. But, by not subjecting myself to her special brand of evil, I am at least giving myself a chance to heal.
Some days I am happy with my writing. Some days I reread what I wrote and I can just hear my mother's voice in my head laughing at me and telling me I am a fool to even try this.
But mostly I want to try. I don't want to be an old woman and look back on my life and say "I didn't even try to fulfill my life long dream because my mother told me I wasn't good enough." She doesn't get to have that. I am not listening to her anymore.
I decided I could write when I stopped talking to my mother and went to therapy.
See, I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember thinking about things like that. Actually, most of the time I was a storyteller rather than a writer. It is hard to write when you are riding your bicycle or wandering through the woods. I made up stories all the time, for far longer than most people do.
I wanted to be Kurt Vonnegut or Jack Kerouac. I even smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. But before that I was a little girl with a prodigious vocabulary who wanted to be a writer. And I would read my stories to my ever loving (yeah, right) mother. I still remember what she said because she sliced each letter of each word was into my heart with a razor. I still have the scars.
I know it wont sound like much. But I thought my mom loved me and I thought she was right. So when she read one of my little handwritten stories and she said "You should learn to type so you have something to fall back on when this writing thing doesn't work out." I was devastated.
Think about that. Who says that to a young person? And she wasn't joking. She wasn't being playful. She took my childhood dream and she told me that it wasn't going to work out. And not only that, she told me that I should set my sights lower, like being a secretary.
Some of you who read this might not be parents, but you might have interacted with children. If young child said they wanted to be an artist and showed you their drawing, would you just say "Oh! What a lovely drawing!" Any normal person could at least muster fake support.
If the drawing really was quite nice for the child's age you might say something more specific like, "Wow! That is a very realistic looking cat. My, my, you are going to be artist someday." If the picture was just some terrible scribbling you are still obliged to say, "Very nice!"
Parents are supposed to be biased towards their children. Parents are supposed to think their children are pretty darn great and possibly the best child ever. Some parents don't, of course. But does the child ever think it is the parent who is wrong? No. Children who are burdened with a parent who doesn't see them as extra special or worse, doesn't even love them end up thinking that they are nothing special and not lovable.
None of the praise I got at school, from friends, and from strangers who read my writing ever kissed away the hurt my mother caused me by telling me that I wasn't good enough and that I needed to set my sights much MUCH lower.
I had so many other scars that said I was not pretty, too skinny, and later too fat, that I was a mean horrible person, that I was a fool, that I was laughable, forgettable, and unlovable. And every time I went to her with my heart in my hand and asked 'Am I good enough now, Mom?" and she say "Of course not" those old wounds would reopen and bleed.
Then, when my own daughter was eight and a half, I realized that no mother, no normal mother would tell their child, who dreamed of being a writer, that their childish storytelling was so bad that they should give up now and set their sights on being a secretary.
I had to stop taking my heart to my mother and allowing her to stomp on it to be able to write. I had to see what a crazy f'ed up bitch she is to write.
It is a daily struggle to write. All the scars are still there and I can't tell you if they will ever go away. But, by not subjecting myself to her special brand of evil, I am at least giving myself a chance to heal.
Some days I am happy with my writing. Some days I reread what I wrote and I can just hear my mother's voice in my head laughing at me and telling me I am a fool to even try this.
But mostly I want to try. I don't want to be an old woman and look back on my life and say "I didn't even try to fulfill my life long dream because my mother told me I wasn't good enough." She doesn't get to have that. I am not listening to her anymore.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Spring Fever
I am ready for spring! Today I went out for a walk with only a long sleeve shirt and hoodie (well I also had pants on... oh, and shoes.) No huge winter coat for me!
I am looking forward to seeing the first crocus buds spring forth, but I may have to wait.
I can feel a big spring cleaning coming on. I keep rearranging all the furniture in my mind. I am prettifying my nest. :)
I repainted the upstairs bathroom but the color is too subdued and now I am thinking I will repaint it a vibrant green.
Zoe has been begging to get back into our roleplaying game, but the idea of focusing my creative energies away from my novel makes me resentful.
I will have hit 100 pages any day now. Pere promised me a celebration. But we have something else to celebrate this week, our anniversary. We will have been together ten years on the 9th!
I love that man of mine!
I am looking forward to seeing the first crocus buds spring forth, but I may have to wait.
I can feel a big spring cleaning coming on. I keep rearranging all the furniture in my mind. I am prettifying my nest. :)
I repainted the upstairs bathroom but the color is too subdued and now I am thinking I will repaint it a vibrant green.
Zoe has been begging to get back into our roleplaying game, but the idea of focusing my creative energies away from my novel makes me resentful.
I will have hit 100 pages any day now. Pere promised me a celebration. But we have something else to celebrate this week, our anniversary. We will have been together ten years on the 9th!
I love that man of mine!
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