Talk about a dipstick…

Where, along the way, do we come to the conclusion that if we can’t do something without asking for help that we aren’t as smart as everyone else?

Why do we feel embarrassed when we don’t understand something?

When I was a teacher, I must have said show your work at least 25,000 times.

But, inevitably, if a kid had to actually write something on a piece of paper to solve a math problem,

as soon as he or she got the answer,

all those numbers would get erased.

Violently.

There must never be any evidence that the child couldn’t solve a problem using his or her brain alone.

Number 3 is in that phase right now.

The other day I wrote on his math homework.

You would have thought I just spray painted the Mona Lisa the way he removed that shit from his paper.

Maybe it’s a self-esteem thing.

Because Number 4 could care less about that stuff.

And if she doesn’t know how to do something, she has no problem admitting it.

At 6 years old, I think that’s admirable.

Because I am just getting to that point now.

My dad was a mechanic for Chevrolet for 43 years, so he always took care of our vehicles.

You’d think the daughter of a mechanic would know her way around a car.

Nope.

I was clueless.

But I didn’t want anyone to know.

Especially my dad.

So one day he told me I needed to add oil to the car.

I was a senior in high school.

I knew how to open the hood of the car, and I knew where the dipstick was, but that was about it.

I didn’t think it would be a big deal; I ‘d be able to figure it out without admitting that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

I had a quart of oil and the hood of the car propped up.

I opened up the container,

I took the dipstick out,

and I proceeded to try to pour the quart of oil into that teeny, tiny dipstick hole.

After I had poured approximately half the quart onto the outside of the oil tank, I got smart.

I went and got a funnel.

Well that sure as hell didn’t fit inside the dipstick hole.

But I tried it anyway.

I succeeded in getting about 3 teaspoons of oil into the tank.

The rest was dripping down onto the ground.

It didn’t take long for Dad to notice a quart of oil dumped in the driveway.

Or the fact that the oil gauge on the car hadn’t moved one millimeter.

And so instead of feeling a little stupid that I had to admit to not knowing how the hell to get the oil into the car,

I felt a lot stupid when I had to tell Dad that I tried to pour it in the wrong spot.

Repeatedly.

I don’t know how I’m going to teach Number 3 that admitting you don’t know how to do something doesn’t mean you’re stupid.

But in the meantime,

I’m gonna go make sure he knows how the hell to add some oil to his car.

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