Maths revision - just another way to feel inadequate

As part of GCSE revision, Daniel is completing maths practice papers.  Great I thought until I came to mark them and found that even the answer sheet is testing.  Would be fine if he got them all right, but when he doesn’t, we both try to decipher the step by step answers and still don’t have a clue.

So the answer book says if you find this hard going, take a look at Circle Geometry.  Ah ha, I thought and I did.  It told me that:

-          Tangent-Radius meets at 90°

-          Angles in the same sequent are equal

-          Chord Bisector is a Diameter

Whilst I remember the mnemonic from school comparing two classmates to Radius and Diameter (little Redman, big Davey), the rest is a mystery.

So I studied the answer book.  I studied the revision guide.  And I studied the question again.  Can I prove that the angle CAB = BCD?  Not a chance.

Daniel:        Well?
Me:              How about some English?

Still at least they have revision guides now.  And they’re beautiful things.  Lots of colours, graphics, summaries after every section and as easy to read as a comic.  A million years apart from our dry textbooks or paltry notes we took during lessons.  When they question annually why exam results are improving, I think they should look at the revision tools.

Best thing of all though, was The Now Show (thank you Radio 4).  It asked the audience for the signs of Spring and a teacher replied that All 16 year olds Are Doing At Least 4 Hours Revision Per Day.  At Least.  And Not Including Breaks.  Made us all laugh, but it revised my expectations.

So is Daniel doing 4 hours revision per day?  Probably not, but it feels like I am.

The last of the Easter Egg Hunts (probably)

At 14 and 16 the boys are too old for Easter Egg Hunts.  But when you’re scared at how quickly they’re growing up, you bring out every childhood ruse to pretend they’re still kids.

 

So I picked up a packet of 25 foil covered eggs – perfect for Easter Egg Hunts it said – and took great pleasure in getting up early to scatter them around the garden.  Not so bad, you’d think, but by now I had committed 5 mistakes:

1.   Very hot day and by 10am eggs were melting and needed to be rescued ASAP

2.   Daniel still asleep and didn’t appreciate being hauled from bed

3.   Garden more weeds than neatly manicured and everything invisible

4.   Red, green and pink foil wrappers, hard to spot in grass when you’re red/green colour blind

5,   Boys are too old for this and less than impressed I’ve hidden their chocolate

Ten minutes in, they were bored, so I had to point out probable hiding places.  Half an hour later they’ve given up entirely.  Quick count reveals Jamie far more successful than Daniel and 9 eggs still missing.

Daniel:    S’not fair
Me:          Well look then
Daniel:    Effort
Me:          Oh grow up

One hour later, I’m scouring the garden by myself and have found another 4 of the MIA’s.  Two hours later, husband has joined in the search and our tally is up to 7.  Three hours later I go through bin to check packet and that it really did say 25, not approximately.

Later that afternoon, idly poke around garden from time to time, but have accepted they belong to the hedgehogs.  Don’t mind the loss of the eggs, just irritated that I can’t find them.

Just hope I remember this for next year.  And have grown up enough myself to realise that it’s no fun being treated like a child when you’re a teenager.

No one minds getting older - when you're a teenager

The sun is at its most splendid in a faultless blue sky which is filled with a cacophony of birds, singing for sex.  Okay, I assumed the sex bit, but it is spring and isn’t that about nesting and eggs and stuff? 

It’s the holidays, and far too good a day to waste at home.

Me:            Let’s go to the beach

Daniel:       I’m meeting friends soon

Jamie:       Why?

Not so long ago, the beach was our favourite destination and as likely to be turned down as an ice cream.  It’s one of the few places that doesn’t feel spoilt by *progress* and I love going somewhere that’s still run by nature.

Deflated by their refusal, I fall back on prosaics, offer them lunch and stand in the garden listening to the first cuckoo.

Trouble is, we’ve got conflicting agendas now.  The older they get, the more they want to break free, and I’m clutching at these last few years together whilst watching them pull away.  I know it has to happen, but so do taxes, and I don’t welcome those either. 

They’re at the age where getting older is one of the perks of being a teenager.

Daniel:       I don’t know why you mind so much – I’m happy to be older

Me:            That’s because you’re young

Daniel:       So?

So indeed.  When you’re young, everything is close together, and you haven’t learnt that age separates you from people and times that you’ve loved.  I wouldn’t mind ageing if it meant I could still keep my memories close, but the years jump in to pull us apart and they dissipate.

I don’t want to return to the early years of parenthood, where sleep was someone else’s dream, cleaning your teeth a luxury and the greatest gift was being given time off.  However, a quick visit back in a time machine would be fab.

But for now at least, I’ve still got teenagers and whilst they might not be as cuddly as babies, they’re much more fun.

Don't blame the teachers, but they're the reason

The last few weeks before GCSEs start are whizzing past and Daniel is working really hard.  Just a shame it’s on the bass and guitar, rather than his text books.  I even heard him playing the guitar in the bathroom the other day, but decided I really didn't want to know why.  Wish he showed the same attachment to revision.

He is going into school over the holidays, for some extra revision days, but you can imagine how popular those are.

Dan:        Look, I’m just crap at maths

Me:         Course you’re not

Dan:        I don’t understand anything in his lessons

Me:         Well, ask then

Dan:        Eye swivel

Maybe he’s right.  My maths teacher wrote on my school report that “Suzanne should desist from asking questions”.  She had a point because her answers never made things clearer.  It was only when our teachers changed and the fabulous Mr Northover took over that everything became easy.

Still I managed to persuade Daniel to sign up for a maths revision day – run by a different teacher.  I was dubious: a whole day of maths lessons is hardly welcomed by the keenest teenager, especially when it’s during the holidays and they’ve forgotten what 9am looks like.

Eight hours later he’s home again.

Me:         How was it

Dan:        Fantastic

Me:         Really? 

Dan:        Yeah, we covered 40% of the course and it’s really clear

Me:         It all makes sense now?

Dan:        Yeah, she’s a brilliant teacher

Now I really don’t blame the teachers (they work hard, it’s a tough job, they don’t get enough credit or respect), but at the same time this makes me so cross.  How you do at school depends entirely upon your teacher.  And it’s not even whether they’re good or bad, for one child’s Awesome Teacher is another child’s Nightmare.

Trouble is, a teacher you don’t gel with can turn a favourite subject into your worst.  No one should leave school thinking they’re rubbish at certain things, and yet we all do and those feelings are hard to shed.

So how do I think Daniel will get on with his next revision day, now that he no longer has that subject’s Awesome teacher?  Best not to comment.

This hurts me more than it does you

Yesterday used to be my mother’s birthday. 

Seven years on, it’s as important to me to visit her grave, as it used to be seeing her when she was alive.  I like the boys to come too and normally they’re happy to oblige.  Yesterday though, Jamie was busy blowing zombies apart and half an hour later they were still chasing him around the internet.

Me:            Right, you’ve got two minutes left to kill them off

Jamie:        I can’t.  They’ll always be more

Me:            Okay.  You’ve got two minutes left to die

Jamie:        I can’t.  I’ll let the others down

Me:            Who are the others?  D’you know them?

Jamie:        No

Me:            So some strangers matter more than Granna?

I’m hoping this kind of talk is standard in families, and also the next bit where I tell him he’s got ten seconds to get in the car or the Playstation vanishes for five days.  Of course, rather than ten seconds, I end up waiting ten to the power of something much bigger, but he still misses his deadline.

And so I’m in the horrible position of having to deliver the consequences.  Thankfully, ultimatum standoffs don’t happen much these days, but when they were little, I’d dread the words falling out and do anything to pervert their enactment.  

So now the Playstation’s out of action and I’m in the doghouse.  Five days feels harsh, but every time Jamie tries to argue his case he makes it worse:

Jamie:        All that Granna means to me now is Canada Dry, Elderflower Cordial and Cancer.  And I can get two of those in the supermarket

Me:            You can probably find cancer there too

Jamie:        Okay then, three out of three.  So why should I go to her grave?

I have lots of answers for him, but the truth is she’s just my loss now.  His memories  of her have been replaced by the next half of his life, and the last thing I want is for him to associate her with the Playstation. 

So what do you do?

Remembering to remember and other forgettings

Stunned to catch Daniel reading his chemistry text book.

Me:      Is that homework?

Dan:    No, I’m revising

Me:      Oh a test

Dan:    No.  They’re called GCSEs

Whilst I know his exams start in six weeks, I can’t quite believe that he does.  When I was 16, six weeks was so far in the future that it barely figured and concentrating on what felt like the never never, was near impossible.  But for a boy who’s counted down the 56 weeks to his next Muse concert, perhaps it’s closer. 

The trouble is I’m not a poker player and rather than playing it cool about his chemistry book, my reaction was more in keeping with news of a Nobel prize.  So now I’m convinced that he’ll think Job Done on the revision front and not open a book again till the day itself. 

Obviously, this totally disregards the fact that he is virtually grown up and can work out for himself the merits – and nots – of revising.  I’m sure he’s much more interested in doing well for his own benefit than mine, but as a parent, sometimes it’s hard to remember that they know how to breathe without you. 

All I can offer in my defence is his brother.  Jamie is the archetypal Forget-His-Head-If-It’s-Not-Screwed-On child and recent entries on his reminder list include:

·       Wear more than a t-shirt outside when there’s a foot of snow on the ground
·       Go to the loo if you’re about to be sick
·       If you’re putting the left walking boot in your bag, also take the right

Still, unlike me he can grill bacon without forgetting about it till the smoke alarm goes off.  And he’s never left the rice burning on the hob in an empty house for hours - more than once.

So now that I’ve confessed where the apple’s fallen from, maybe I’d better stop waving it about.  But I’ll still keep a watch on his breathing.

The trouble with paintballing is you're the target

In a sexist kind of way, decided that eldest brother’s birthday bash should involve shooting stuff, so went for arrows and paintballs.

Archery was fantastic, and much better for de-stressing than fishwife impersonations at the children.  Suppose it's good to know that I stand a chance of procuring a meal, as long as it stands stock still, doesn’t mind waiting for five minutes and is about the size of a car door.

Sharp contrast to paintballing where I was the receiving end. 

Should have sussed when the bloke collecting our dosh told me to get each kid to complete a registration form.  Guess that female forty somethings only turn up as taxi-mums, and didn’t tell him that I was one of our younger "kids".

Any hopes for leniency died with the 50 or so squaddies stripping down and into combats (the good bit of the day…).  Amazed that paintballing could be part of their training, until the first session when you instantly discover how real this feels.  Adrenalin rips your breath away and trying to keep covered whilst shooting at the enemy and moving forward is a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach whilst doing a cartwheel.

The map of the Maldives now peppered over my left leg is testament to how useless I was – though prefer to think that as the only woman present, I was target practice.  Still, at least I haven’t got a bruise impersonating a hickey on my neck like my husband. 

However, this all feels uncomfortably similar to Sarah Palin's horrible hobbies.  So when my 50^th comes around, perhaps I'll suggest a spot of stamp collecting.  On a passport.