When I recently took a job as a teacher’s aide, I stipulated that I could never assist in a classroom above second grade. Why? Because I wouldn’t be able to handle the math.

When I was in the eighth grade, I was in an advanced math class. I don’t know how I got there, but I do know that any skill I had in the numbers department ended in that class. Not only that, but it seems my brain went through some sort of regression in the summer before high school. Once I started ninth grade, algebra seemed as easy as studying metaphysics…in Latin.

This did not lead to a stellar academic path. My grades were excellent in anything involving language arts, journalism and communications, but by my senior year I was taking “College Prep Math” which was taught by the football coach.

People mostly referred to the class as “College Football Math”, though that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. The goth girls and burn-out’s who sat around me didn’t know offense from defense.

Now, I have a fourth grader who is bringing home real math homework and who is participating in something called the Metric Olympics at her school. Last year, she memorized her multiplication tables in no time flat, and would finish timed-tests so quickly that I think she once gave herself a pedicure before the next kid turned in his paper.

That’s my girl! She’s a regular chip off the old block. Her father, that is. I may be bad with numbers, but I’m smart as a whip.

I married a math major.

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My six year old son was born with multiple heart defects, one of which is very rare. It is called Cor Triatrium Dexter and has to do with the trabeculated anterior, sinoatrial orifice, crista terminalis, and the super-cali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious.

Basically, the right side of his heart is jacked up.

For the first year of his life, he was cyanotic a lot. For people who are fortunate enough not to understand that term…it means that he was blue. He often had discolored skin around his mouth, which was a constant reminder that his blood didn’t have enough oxygen in it.

When he was 13 months old, he had angioplasty and valvuloplasty. This wasn’t because he was eating too much butter and bacon, but rather because this one weird defect had created a blockage, and that’s why he looked like Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

The benefit of the surgery was that he suddenly had energy he never had before. The downside is, that in stretching out the valve the cardiologist created a leak. Not because he messed up, but because that is what happens when you expand a valve.

And that means in the near future my kid will need open heart surgery.

One good thing? Well, he’s always been too young to understand just how messed up his ticker really is. He knows there is something different about him…and how could he not? He may as well have a stethoscope permanently affixed to his chest. But, we never talk to him about having any limitations.

The other night, we saw that he has grasped what we’ve been telling him all along. Because when my daughter was upset and crying hard (Note to Dad: Let’s not tell the nine year old that someday her dog will die), my son walked over to his sister and said, “It’s okay. Don’t cry. I love you. I love you with all of my special heart.”

And if that doesn’t warm your cockles, I don’t know what will.

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Two days ago, we attended our niece’s wedding in Virginia. The ceremony and reception were held at a beautiful and exclusive resort on the banks of the James River. I’m pretty sure they wanted to turn us away at the gate, because our Cadillac wasn’t fancy enough.

The bride and the guests were gorgeous, decked out in clothes so fabulous that the sunset paled in comparison. Following the ceremony, the wedding party had photographs taken while we were treated to scrumptious hors d’oeuvres in truly lovely surroundings.

After finding out I have a love for something called “mushroom cigars” and even more love for something called an “open bar”, it was time for the reception.

As we left the riverbank and stepped inside to the five-course, sit-down dinner, I grabbed my son’s hand and told my daughter to follow behind.

We entered on the far end of the hall and zig-zagged through the crowd, looking for the table number that matched our place card. I nodded politely and said, “Excuse me”, numerous times as the three of us wiggled around the room.

Little did I know that I should have been excusing my son’s behavior, not mine, because when we arrived at our table my daughter said, “Mom! Your son smacked the butt of every person we passed by!”

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My daughter just returned home from a three-day trip to my Mom’s house. I figured it would be good for my kid to have some time alone with her Grandma.

Grandma reported that her youngest grand-daughter was polite, helpful, and easy to get along with, and that they had a wonderful time together. In fact, it was so wonderful that my Mom said, “I asked her if she wanted to move in with me.”

I laughed, knowing full well that my daughter would have none of that. My Mom doesn’t own a Wii…or even a computer. The horrors.

I asked, “What did she say?”

Proud Grandma replied, “Well, she said she’d love to! But, I told her she would miss you guys too much. And, do you know what she said to that?”

“No,” I answered hesitantly. What?”

“She said that as long as she had a picture of you and could occasionally see you on weekends, she’d be just fine.”

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