This week, I have been reminded how much I don’t like
numbers. I am not a numbers person. I think it all started back in second grade
when I just flat out didn’t understand subtraction and spent a good portion of
the math time either crying or pretending I needed to use the bathroom. As I got older, I learned to stay put during
math, but I spent my time doodling or writing notes and folding them into
complicated squares. As an adult, I have
not liked numbers because numbers typically mean money and budgets and
stress. Also, my children keep bringing
home their own sets of numbers to work on, but somehow they are new numbers and
there is no way I can help with that.
Well, maybe I could, but I just don’t do numbers.
I was given a number this week on a review which really took
me aback and reminded me of the negative influence numbers have had in my
life. I did not agree with this number,
I did not like this number and I was saddened, affronted and aggrieved by this
number. A stupid number gave me all of
these words and feelings! I went to bed
sad and defeated by this number, but when I woke up in the morning, I was angry
at this number. This number is not me! I am not this number! I was able to talk to the person who gave me
this number and tell him how this number made me feel. I told him this number made me feel as though
I failed, that this number personally hurt my feelings. I told him I took umbrage with this number. Umbrage, like I was Agatha Christie or the
Queen of England, I took umbrage. I did
not get him to change his number, but using my words gave me back a sense of
who I really am, what it is I am really doing here every day. That can’t be measured in a number and my
words helped remind me of that. Stupid
numbers.
 |
| Not the number I was given, but the disdain is relatable. |
Yesterday though, I was shown that while numbers might not
work for me, sometimes they make other people feel very special. Yesterday was the boy’s first track meet and
he has been working sort of hard towards it.
The boy has a lackadaisical approach to life so it is hard to say what
working hard really looks like for him.
We all know that the boy has had a rough life with those crazy eyes and
school is hard and he doesn’t do sports and while he is mostly good at trumpet,
he’s not the trumpet rock star he’d like to be.
So I was nervous when he approached the blocks. I was filled with trepidation as he knelt
down and I entered into silent pleas with God that he just didn’t trip or fall
or that he just ran hard and came in the middle of the pack. I just wanted him to feel accomplished. Then the gun fired and they took off and from
the very start he was ahead. He was not
only ahead, he was pumping his arms and legs and SAILING ahead of the pack. He was so far in front that when I tried to
take a picture, all I got was the bottom of his foot as he flew past me. He was all arms, all legs, all fluid motion
and I was screaming and jumping and crying as he WON. HE WON!!!!!
I ran down to the fence, still yelling, still leaky-eye
crying to see if I could get his attention. He was in the middle of a pack of kids and
when I yelled his name for the tenth time, he broke off and held up a blue
ribbon in one hand and the number one with his other hand. He was so damn happy and proud of himself and
his number. I was so damn happy and
proud of him and his number. His face
was alit with joy like it used to be when he was little and I found myself so
damn grateful for a number that could make him look like that again. Me, grateful for a number. A number that made my son feel for the first
time in his life, like he could do anything.
That he was important. That he
was good at something. That someone
recognized what it is he can do. That he
was number one. That number, number one for my boy, is finally a number I can
really get behind.
