The Problem with Story Problems

by Lori Clinch

I awoke this morning with an intellectual hangover. My eyes were fuzzy, my stomach was queasy, and there was a pounding in my head that was keeping time to the kind of music only my teenage son listens to.
I'd overindulged in the children's math homework before and, while I should have known better, I guess I just got caught up in the moment.

I'm more of an English and Science person myself. If the kids need help with speeches, term papers, or a metabolic breakdown, Mom's the gal. On the other hand, it's a well-known fact that it's best to seek out dear old dad when math assistance is required.

Unfortunately for my eldest child, dear old dad was otherwise disposed last night-dispatched to parts unknown where he could enjoy his mathematical skills without interruption. That left just my child and me. And an occasional brother who would stick his head in the book now and then and say, "Man, that's hard."

I took one look at his "story problems" and realized two things-the first of which is that "story problems" are not as fun as they sound. Secondly, "story problem" people are a stupid lot. They don't know how to shop for the right prices. They spend way too much time calculating driving time, and, according to my son's math book, are the only people on the planet who use percentages and calculations before enjoying chocolate chip cookies.
I figured I'd go back to the beginning of the chapter and learn my way up to page 154, but the beginning of the chapter made less sense to me than the middle.

"Okay," I said to my freshman, "I'll tell you what. You explain it to me as you know it and we'll go from there."

"Mom, if I could explain it to you, would I need you?"

"Of course you would need me. Do you think those clean socks just magically appear in your drawer?"

"Okay," he replied, "the whole family appreciates what you're doing with the socks, but we're talking algebra here. Can we focus?"

"Don't you get smart with me, little mister. I already passed the ninth grade and I showed myself worthy. I've got nothing to prove."

"Okay, but can you explain to me what, if any, algebraic expression would tell us how to determine the amount of time it would take for Jonny Belinski, a good man of English decent, to get from Pocatello to Albuquerque if he was driving 42 miles per hour down the interstate?"

"What's he driving, a station wagon or a Porsche?"

"Mom, he's driving a car, okay? Doesn't matter which kind. The dude's driving 42 miles per hour on the interstate. He could be driving a donkey for all anyone cares."

"Are there potty breaks involved?"

"Can we just do this?"
I hate it when math lets the kids take on adult roles. I'm too young for role reversals.

"I know," I said, "let's call your grandmother. She'll have the answer."

"Mom, I already called Grandma. I called my friends. I called the 1-800 number for desperate children who have nowhere else to turn but to a mother who still thinks of metrics as the devil's handiwork. Now listen to me as I read the next story problem. Howard Grosencamp has a candy store. He has 30 pounds of $5 per pound candy and 40 pounds of $8 per pound candy and he wants to mix it together so he can sell candy for $6 per pound. How many pounds of each should he mix and how many pounds will he end up with?"

What kind of mind comes up with these questions?

"You're kidding, right? Can't this Howard dude simply be content with his candy as is?"

"Mom, you did not just say dude."

"I did," I said. "Do you want my answer?"

"It's what I live for."

"Okay, then here it is," I said smugly. "Howard should spend a little more time doing research and a little less time worrying about math. He needs to offer a few coupons, have a two-fer day, and a door buster sale. If he really wants things done right, he should hand the store over to his wife who wouldn't need algebraic equations and story problems to figure the best deal. Then Howard could get on with his miserable story problem life and you and I could live out a peaceful existence without computations"

"Are you done?"

"I think so."

"You have no idea how to figure any of this out, do you?"

"None whatsoever."

I am so glad I already passed the ninth grade and showed myself worthy. This kind of stuff is hard on the old cerebellum. My thinking centers can not take abuse like this on a regular basis anymore.

Be sure and pick up your copy of Lori’s newest book “Are we there yet” today! Order online at www.theold101press.com