Adding Up My Failures

(But Not Without a Calculator)

I want to start by saying, I loved my dad growing up. Properly adored him. But he was a quintessential 90s dad, which means he worked a lot, had a spectacularly short fuse, and a temper that could make a kettle seem laid-back. I loved him, yes - but as a child, I was also deeply terrified of him. Which, let’s face it, was probably very on-brand for the time.

Here’s the thing: I’ve always struggled with admitting I’m not good at everything. Obviously, I’m human, and it’s perfectly normal to have weaknesses. And yet, there’s a stubborn part of me that insists I should be good at absolutely everything. I give the kind of motivational pep talks to others that I should really swallow whole myself. But no. Instead, I sit here quietly berating myself for not being infallible.

Which brings us to the topic at hand: I am not good at maths. Or "math," if you’re American, but frankly, you’re wrong. Plural is necessary for the sheer magnitude of numbers I cannot handle. In the corporate world, admitting you’re not good at something like maths is akin to whispering, “I’m secretly illiterate,” or, “I don’t understand email.” It’s seen as a catastrophic weakness. But let me be clear: I am left-brained through and through. Creative to my core. I love writing, entertaining, creating little pockets of community where people might (hopefully) laugh or feel something. But put a spreadsheet in front of me, and my brain essentially ejects itself from the room.

It’s not that I don’t like numbers. I love data, patterns, even a good pie chart when the occasion calls for it. But straightforward arithmetic? Absolutely not. It’s as if my brain has installed a maths firewall that prevents basic operations like division from sneaking in.

So, how does this tie back to my dad, you ask? Homework. Oh, the horror. My dad… whose brain just effortlessly *did* numbers - would try to help me with my homework, which mostly involved me crying at the kitchen table, blubbering through snot bubbles, and doing those gasping sobs that feel like your lungs are trying to leave the building. I couldn’t control my emotions, which only made me cry harder. My dad, meanwhile, couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just *get it*. Numbers came to him as naturally as breathing. What I didn’t realise then, though, is that while I can’t do maths, he couldn’t perfectly spell. Everyone’s got their Achilles heel.

This weekend, I sat down with my son to help him with his homework. He’s six, which means the maths is basic, but apparently not basic enough for me. The sight of slightly more complicated problems made me break out in a cold sweat. Thoughts and prayers, people. I am so monumentally screwed. The demons of my own childhood bubbled up immediately: the shame of being bad at something I felt I should be good at. The frustration of seeing a blank stare where I’d hoped for comprehension.

Oh, and did I mention my toddler was sitting across the table, doing her own “homework,” which mostly involved scribbling on herself with a pen? We had to leave the house in 15 minutes. I was under time pressure, dealing with a toddler, and staring down the barrel of maths anxiety. This was a recipe for disaster.

And then it happened. My voice rose. My frustration boiled over. “JUST FOCUS,” I barked. The second the words left my mouth, I saw his face crumble. My sweet, clever boy burst into tears, and I immediately hated myself. I’d done the very thing my dad used to do, the thing that made me feel so small.

I apologised straight away, explaining that it wasn’t his fault. Mummy was struggling, and he was trying really hard, and I was so proud of him. He forgave me, because children are made of magic and forgiveness and whatever the opposite of grudges is. We hugged, and I called in my husband to finish the job. My husband, naturally, is one of those people whose brain just *does* maths. (Bastard.)

Later, as we finally left the house to get some fresh air and let the toddler run wild, I looked at my husband and said, “I’m not good at maths. And that’s okay. I never will be. And that’s okay too.” From now on, I’ll plan homework sessions ahead of time. No more squeezing them into tiny, stressful windows. I’ll bring my A-game for English, because words are my thing, and I can absolutely dominate at Scrabble. And if anyone needs a crash course in Tudor history, I’m their woman. (Fun fact: Jane Seymour was actually Henry VIII’s favourite wife.)

Some things you’re good at. Some things you’re not. And that’s okay. But maths? Well, let’s just say I’ll be hiding in the kitchen the next time that homework folder comes out.