Today is my lovely wife's birthday. As a tribute to her, I'm re-running a guest blogging piece she did for me a few years ago. Happy birthday, Bridget!
Give Me Math Any Day
by Bridget Kaempfer
I am NOT a writer. From grade school to college, every writing project assigned to me turned me into the Queen of Procrastination. I assume most everyone is like that at some point in their lives. Probably some of you were still printing (or typing) your final paper for English five minutes before class started like I did. But I even did it in the fourth grade. There was nothing I hated more than a blank piece of notebook paper and being told to “use my imagination.”
However, I AM a reader. I read everything as a kid. My sisters and I would go to the library every Saturday and each of us would check out fourteen books (the limit on our cards), trade them back and forth, and do it all over again the following week. I don’t have time to read as much as I used to, but I still read quite a bit.
Much of what I read these days is the product of my husband’s hard work. Who would have known that he would provide an endless supply of new reading material right in my own home? That I would be asked on a regular basis to give a critique (which ultimately will be ignored) or check for grammatical errors in a new article? Or that some personal details of my life would be twisted out of proportion and posted on the web for the world to read?
Most of the time, I find it amusing. I never knew my family’s life could be so funny... it certainly doesn’t seem funny as its happening. I guess it’s a good thing that I can read about it later and laugh. And of course, I can claim that the really embarrassing stories didn’t really happen (he writes fiction for goodness sake...)
It’s also interesting to see a seemingly mundane event turned into something special with the power of words. Like many working parents, my busy schedule makes it nearly impossible to be as involved as I’d like, and sometimes I feel like I miss out. But I’m lucky. I get a running commentary of what is going on in my house at any given time. Whether it’s learning how to ride a bike for the first time, reaching a new level on a video game or a designing new train track configuration, I can count on the highlights of my family life being recorded so I can go back and see what I missed. It’s like my own personal TiVo (with the added bonus of being able to see humor in a trying situation after the fact, as opposed to living through it myself and killing somebody).
But I can’t do that. I’m not a writer.
“What do you want me to write?” I ask.
“Anything you want,” he says.
“What do you mean, anything? I can’t write – nobody wants to read anything I write.”
“Yes, they do,” he says. "It’ll be fine. Write whatever you want. Use this as a chance to vent at me.”
He may as well have said “use your imagination.”
Besides, I prefer to do my venting verbally. In person. At the top of my lungs.
So here I am, with the proverbial blank piece of paper and an assignment I don’t really want to do. Which is why I waited until the last minute to do this. And once it was done, I didn't tell him for three days so he would sweat about being able to post his blog on time.
After all, I am the Queen of Procrastination. I have to protect my reputation.
