⭐ THE NIGHTMARE OF COUNTING STICKS

When I was seven, I started first grade. Back then the world hadn’t gone completely mad yet, and no one expected children to enter school already knowing how to read, write, or add. Don’t get me wrong — I knew a few things; my brother and I grew up in a family of teachers. But no one demanded superpowers from six-year-olds. In those days, we went to school to learn, not to be called “young scholars” from day one.

Years later, when we became parents, we were surprised to discover that modern schools test children on reading speed and basic arithmetic. At one of those tests our older son was asked the meaning of a word. He didn’t remember. And we — parents — were scolded by the vice-principal: “What a disgrace!”

Judging by her expression, she genuinely thought we were deliberately raising the future leader of some barbarian tribe.

At that moment we knew we had to high-tail it out of that school.

Especially after she added,

“By the way, we have a strict selection process. Not every child qualifies for our program,”

and then looked at us as if evaluating whether we were worthy of the glorious future she was building there.

Honestly, I wondered: if this is just the introduction, what comes next?

Meanwhile, our son walked down the stairs and calmly asked,

“So… should we go check another school now?”

Right then I realized he already knew how to make the right conclusions — and that, after all, is the beginning of real knowledge.

Why are schools expecting so much from preschoolers?

If this trend continues, six-year-olds will soon be expected to know several languages and have a basic grasp of quantum mechanics. God forbid, of course.

Turns out I’m not alone.

Recently I walked past a bench where a group of mothers were discussing school requirements. One of them said:

“Well, sure, science is important… but what’s next? Quantum physics in first grade?”

I agreed with her. Strange days, when mothers stroll through the park, feeding pigeons and bandying about quantum mechanics — maybe even some rocket science — as if they were just swapping cookie recipes.

Back then, school felt much simpler. We learned slowly, step by step. There was a certain wisdom in that unhurried rhythm. It let children breathe, try, and discover at their own pace. And among us kids, no one wanted to overwork — long before anyone had even invented the word “burnout.”

Well, who could blame us?

It’s interesting that Mark Twain once remarked, “The secret of getting ahead is getting started.” First graders had no clue who said that, but we would’ve agreed — once we got started, everyone relaxed.

Teachers did try to motivate us, of course. Gently. Instead of grades we received colored marks: red circles — “well done,” green squares — “not bad,” blue triangles — “try harder.”

But my personal nightmare wasn’t marks, as you might guess.

It was arithmetic.

Memory is a strange creature: it picks out one tiny moment and makes you carry it through life, while far more important things disappear and never return — not even under hypnosis.

Now that I teach math, I often tell this story to my students — the classic “if I could do it, you’ll definitely manage too.”

Many of them don’t believe this was my childhood fear.

But I swear, my trouble began with counting.

Like everyone, I was taught to take counting sticks out of the pencil case, lay them on the table, and check: two sticks plus three sticks — how much is that? One, two, three, four, five.

Five sticks, so it’s five! “Good job,” the teacher would say. “Sit down.”

If you were eager to answer in class, you’d get a red circle mark for your hard work — like a tiny traffic light telling you, “Stop right there, you’ve reached perfection.”

Charming, isn’t it?

But while other kids seemed completely unbothered, I felt uneasy during these little experiments. I’m over fifty now, writing about this, and I still remember my cold hands and tense nerves during my first attempts at arithmetic.

Why was I so troubled?

Probably because of my slightly too suspicious, slightly too critical approach to everything.

I thought: okay, right now two plus three equals five.

But what if I try again — will it still be five?

At seven I didn’t know the word “statistics,” but I already didn’t trust a sample size of one.

I tried again — and it still, darn it, came out five.

But I kept doubting.

What about tomorrow?

Or next week?

What if it suddenly becomes six?

Years later, I’m fine with arithmetic — that part of life behaves.

But my mind still pokes at other mysteries.

And judging by conversations with friends, I’m definitely not the only one — finally.

For instance: why is our internet not always fast, but the government is always slow?

Maybe the very fact that we keep asking questions means there’s still hope — hope that we can make the world work a little better.

But back to the counting sticks.

I kept suffering.

Other children seemed to accept everything on faith.

We were taught to obey teachers, after all.

Sometimes I envied them — they didn’t worry that the world might stop working according to its laws at any moment.

I, on the other hand, behaved as if I expected the universe to break down without warning.

So I kept trying to find a trick, or explain this strange phenomenon of repeating results. The world, I believed, wasn’t a template — it was art, full of surprise and discovery. But here? No discovery at all. Solid “covery”: always five.

And yes, that was probably fine.

But still — nerves, nerves, nerves…

A month passed, then another.

I learned that three plus two was five, six plus three was nine, and so on.

At some point I realized this was a stable thing — as steady as a sunrise.

Or as bus doors that close the moment you reach them.

Or like a neighbor with a power drill early on Saturday morning.

I got used to it, accepted that it was good.

There’s no need for discoveries where everything has already been discovered. Though I still hope for unexpected miracles — which is probably why I was later teased with, “What, you need this more than everyone else?”

But the important thing is: I learned.

And now I tell my students, “If I could learn it, you can too.”

They don’t always believe that right away — just like I didn’t.

And that, really, is our whole life:

first we doubt whether two plus three is always five,

then we doubt the quadratic formula,

and later — whether we’re taking derivatives and integrals correctly.

Yet by expanding the familiar, we give ourselves a chance to meet the unknown someday.

And there’s nothing wrong with getting used to the known.

Teaching puts many things into place and brings back that feeling of youth — the kind where every new skill seemed like a tiny miracle.

So when another student hits their own forehead and complains,

“It doesn’t work!”,

I think of my counting sticks, smile…

…and understand that once again it’s time to save a tiny universe from collapsing.

But now I have no doubt.

Everything will work out just fine.