The Problem With Problems

What my daughter's math homework can teach us about human nature (and why I prefer locusts)

Last night, Hattie brings me her math homework, her eyes glazed with a tinge of madness.

“I can't do this! It doesn't make sense!”

The question she is stuck on is the following:

‘How many weeks are there in 420 days?’

Alongside the question are Hattie's frantic pencil scribblings. I see crossed-out numbers and sudden block letters spelling out the words, ‘HELP ME’.

We’ve all been there, I suppose. But I am also somewhat unimpressed. I mean, the HELP ME is impressively insane-looking, but a nine-year-old should be able to solve this sort of problem in her head. The main issue, I explain to her, is that she hasn't yet learned to see the fun side of a problem.

“Solving problems,” I explain to her, “is what we do here on this planet. You shouldn't flinch from problems, you should savor them. You should feel excited about being able to break them into smaller components and solve each component one by one. You should realize that given sufficient time and resources, we can solve any problem in the universe.

“That's how I approach problems. Nobody taught me this,” I add, proudly. “I figured it out myself. But it just seems so obvious when you think about it.”

Hattie looks at me dubiously, so I continue.

“I'm just saying, our brains evolved to solve problems. That's what we do, that's how we arrived here, and this is also why we play games—we each of us want to solve interesting problems, because we are problem-solving animals.

“And what I've noticed is that, when people find themselves stuck in life, without any interesting problems to solve—or you know, things become too easy and straightforward—people will generally start inventing new problems for themselves, completely out of thin air, just to have problems to work on.”

Her nose scrunches in contemplation. “What sort of problems?”

“Well, usually they get into romantic relationships with ill-suited people and then waste their lives trying to work out the situation.”

Hattie's face has become expressionless.

“Did mummy ever do that?”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she skips out of the room.

Do I regret having children? I mean, on the one hand there's the expense, which is significant, and also, you don't get to live where you want to live. You have to move, instead, to some stupid school district or else your nine-year-old won't even learn how to count past ten. Then again, if I hadn't had Hattie, whom fate has viciously contrived to be a smaller version of myself—then I'd have probably moved on to some other set of problems. I'd have simply manifested some sort of situation to similarly vex myself, because that's what humans generally do.

I don't know what those problems would be, of course, but I imagine they'd be Biblical. I mean, if not for Hattie, it would have to be a plague of locusts or some such, because that is, evidently, how I roll.

And at least plagues of locusts don't learn from you. Locusts don't absorb your knowledge or learn from your example. They don't reflect upon your wisdom and mistakes, then come back later and roast you with it. Locusts just eat your crops and then you die of starvation. But at least they don't do that whilst wearing fluffy bunny slippers.

With chaste affection,

Kris St.Gabriel