Can you remember that moment when you first discovered a new concept or idea? How did it make you feel? Where did your realization take you?
The memory of learning how to count has always been vivid in my mind. I will never forget the day that I learned to arrive at 100. My kindergarten teacher had long, brown hair and glasses, and a very nice, large mouth. She sat behind her desk, smiling. I leaned against the front of it.
The teacher asked me to count. "Just keep counting," she said. I remember counting and facing her, watching that big and encouraging smile. When I reached the number 99, I was not sure where to go next. It was the first time I had ever gone this far. I asked her, questioningly, "Ten-dee..?"
Her smile became huge as she gave me the correct answer. "One hundred!"
She then experienced the captivating moment that now motivates me as both a teacher and a parent — it's that special gift of sharing information and then seeing on another the expression as they analyze and understand it for themselves. Magic!
The door to numbers opened. Probably about as far as it would ever open — I've never been a fan of math.
My face reflected what I was learning inside. Ah, if there was this new 'one hundred' number . . . The teacher then explained to me that it was followed by one hundred and one, and then one hundred and two, and it would continue and continue until another new guy came along. His name is 'one thousand.' Incredible!
The whole process still takes me by storm. I stated I wasn't a "fan" of math. Perhaps that's because I'm not really good at math. But I loved this simple step and realization about where numbers went after ninety-nine.
As my one year old son, Quentin, tries to learn new things each day, I cherish the delight of watching him do so. I wish to replicate the experience of my large-smiled kindergarten teacher. Wouldn't it be lovely to help him reach a next step in his thinking? And to see that process unfolding on his face as he does so?
Fudge. I am not often granted this morsel, as my baby oddly craves privacy. Quentin does not want to be watched while he does important things like eat, shit, and try to count. It bothers him, and he loses his concentration if he catches me eyeing him in his process.
But this is his right — to learn as he chooses. Even if he does it alone.
Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.
Albert Einstein
