Infinity

C is starting to learn math in school. Starting out slow, recognizing patterns, writing numbers, etc. But, we’ve been working on it at home, so he can do “hand math,” adding up numbers by counting fingers (10 and 5+5 being the highest we can go now). Subtraction is not taking hold just yet.

Last night the boys packed into the car to go pick up mommy at the train station. Sitting in the parking lot with the heat slowly warming us up (they don’t know my seat is heated and I am jealously guarding that fact…), C started quizzing us on math.

“Daddy,” he asked “what’s six plus six?” I answer and he seems satisfied that I’m correct.

“M, what is four plus two? Daddy, don’t help him.” The three year old gives his brother a puzzled stare.

“Four?”

C, the schoolteacher, turns to his brother. “That is incorrect.” I hold up my hands and try to explain to M how each hand is showing the number of fingers and ask him to count them all.

“Four and two!” He beams. I am chastised for helping.

“Daddy, don’t help him. Now, what is one plus everything?”

I pause, my first thought is that this is nonsense, but I realize there is an answer. “Everything,” I reply.

“That is incorrect!” (Incorrect is our of our favorite words lately, and I grow mildly concerned about where he’s hearing it so often…)

I try to explain, completely failing to realize I have slipped back into teacher mode, but am about to impart wisdom on a 3 and 5 year old. “Well,” I say, “it is correct. If I have everything and I add one more thing to it, I still have everything.” I impart God-like powers on myself and use the hands.

“See, if I have everything in this hand,” I hold up my omnipotent cupped hand, “and one more thing over here.” I raise my weakling one-thing holding hand. “When I bring them together, I still have everything.” Nevermind the fact that, in my omnipotence, I have let one thing slip my grasp of the infinite.

This thought brings something into perspective. Besides the fact that they think I’m speaking gibberish right now, they have no concept of the infinite. I barely grasp it without finding myself breathless.

When they look at the stars, they see lights in the sky or pretty pictures on my computer. Time is the block of space to play in between snack and dinner. Geometry and physics are just funny words. God and the forces of the universe are just words and vague images in their heads. I am awed by the simplicity of what their view of the world must be, and mildly frightened by what lies ahead for them to learn.

Thankfully, I think, that learning will be slow. They will not be yanked from their happy world view into the seeming meaninglessness of being a sole speck in the universe. Then I remember that it is our job to walk them on this path, to help them maintain their hold on themselves, their place in the world, the wonders of everything around them explained, but not overwhelmed. “Well, that sound easy,” I think.

“Daddy,” comes a voice from the backseat, “the answer is 47. Duh.” He moves on with his brother’s next lesson. I work slowly to catch my breath. I had thought he was going to say 42, at which point I might have wept with joy.

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