By Rebecca Giantonio Moran 
I peek over my son’s shoulder as he does his math homework at the kitchen table, observing the way he arrives at answers—a method vastly different from what I learned in second grade. Next to his homework lies a sheet revealing seven different “strategies” he can use to solve each math problem.
As a student, I learned only one way to add and subtract. Nearly 40 years later, I must re-learn math alongside him.
As I read one of the problems, I stifle a yawn and glance at my watch. Six-thirty. I quickly do the math (the old way) in my head. I’ve been awake 14 long hours. In another three, I’ll finally climb into bed and exhale as my head sinks into the pillow. Seven hours later, I’ll wake up and do it all again.
Exhausted by the thought, I pull out a chair to sit for a minute.
Forget John and his apples. Who cares how many more he needs to bring 56 to Beth at the farmers’ market? And why does she need exactly 56?
Here’s the math problem that really needs solving:
A mom has 24 hours in the day. During that time, she needs eight hours of sleep because sleep is more important than anything—but she also needs to plan for and eat three balanced meals because diet is the next-most important. She also must exercise for at least 30 minutes to keep her body and mind strong. Afterward, she’ll take a 10-minute shower (five minutes if it’s a dry shampoo day). Then, she’ll drive the kids to school, which is (thankfully) five minutes away, and sit another five minutes in the school car line. Next, she’ll work at least eight hours.
After work, the family will shovel in dinner, then the mom and dad will split up to bring the kids to their activities. Before bed, she’ll help the kids with homework and make sure they read for at least 30 minutes.
At some point, she needs to tidy her home, drink her body weight in water, spend quality time with her husband (who is incredibly supportive and helpful, by the way), read to keep her mind sharp, journal for mental wellness, reflect in her separate gratitude journal as the experts recommend, run a minimum of three errands because she, like most women, is Chief Operating Officer of the home, wash her son’s only green shirt for “Wear the color of your favorite book cover” day at school, and swing by the store to grab a gift for her daughter’s friend’s birthday party this weekend.
After doing all of this, how much time does the mom have left to take a deep breath and just be?
Answer: zero. Zero hours, zero minutes, zero seconds. If this were fourth-grade math, I’d be more specific and say negative eight hours.
The numbers don’t add up. The math isn’t mathing.
For a long time, I wondered if I simply needed to make more tweaks to get the numbers to work. Now, as I watch my son, I find comfort in this impossible math. The numbers don’t work, irrefutable proof that no one can do it all. My math isn’t off; rather, my expectations of what I can do in a day are.
My son pauses and stares at his paper, full of pencil-drawn boxes. Each box contains 10 lines. He erases a few lines, counts, then draws them again before looking across the table at me.
“Are you stuck?” I ask.
He nods.
“Show me what you did,” I gently instruct.
He goes through the steps, and I spot his error.
“Let’s try another strategy.”
He grabs a fresh sheet of paper, draws a number line, and begins counting backward from 56 (apples) in fives, then ones, until he reaches his starting point. He recounts to be sure, then looks up at me, beaming.
“It’s 32, not 35,” he says, then inspects his original work. “I was right the first time. I shouldn’t have added back those lines.”
“That’s okay!” I reassure him. “You got there. You just needed to find the strategy that worked for you.”
Perhaps I need a different strategy too—a version of my son’s number line in which I focus on my desired outcome and methodically work backward, versus constantly adding and erasing lines, hoping to find my way.
I don’t want my life to become a blur of years, reduced to the number of shoulds and need-tos I crammed into each day—fruitless attempts to make an impossible equation work.
I walk around the table and hug him. “My little math whiz,” I say and ruffle his hair. He smiles and flexes his arms, and I laugh.
This is what I want: moments of joy and love, too abundant to count.
by Aliette Silva 
by Jorrie Varney 
by Christine Carter 
