They say ignorance is bliss, but it isn't – at least not when it comes to helping kids with their homework. My daughter, Kelly, was working on some math problems when she asked, “Mom, what’s a rhombus?” Not having a clue, I froze like a deer in headlights.

“Never mind,” she said. "I’ll just wait and ask the teacher tomorrow."

I didn’t want to admit defeat that easily. I couldn’t tell Kelly what a rhombus was, and she knew it. But maybe I could teach her something even better—how to figure it out for herself—and give her a lesson in being a self-reliant person with a can-do attitude.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Let’s find out what a rhombus is now.”

“I already thought of that,” she answered, “but dad’s not home.”

Ouch. My husband, Steve, is really good at math; it’s one of his gifts. I inherited a gift for math from my parents, but it was just an old calculator.

“That’s not what I meant—we could use your math book to figure it out.”

I picked up Kelly's book. Words I vaguely remember learning thirty years ago covered the page— isosceles, trapezoid, hexagon; my eyes glazed over like two Krispy Kreme donuts.

I set the book down. “Let’s try the dictionary.”

As I walked to the shelf, Kelly asked, “Do you ever need this dumb stuff in real life?”

Absolutely not, I thought to myself. But I couldn’t say that.

Then I remembered something. “Once I read an article in a beauty magazine,” I said. “Experts say you should consider the shape of your face when you put on makeup. The most flattering way to apply eye shadow and blush depends on whether your face is round, oval, square, or even triangle-shaped."

“Does anyone have a rhombus-shaped face?” she asked.

“Um…no.”

I lugged the dictionary to the table. “Let’s see what good ol’ Webster tells us,” I said, flipping the pages.

I read out loud: “Rhombus—an equilateral parallelogram having oblique angles.”

“Do you know what a parallelogram is?” I asked.

“I know what a candy-gram is. They give them out at school on Valentine’s day.”

“I’m talking about the shape. A rhombus is a parallelogram, but its angles are oblique. All we have to do is look up 'oblique' and we’re done. It'll be easy, see?”

I turned more pages and read aloud: “Oblique angle—an acute OR obtuse angle.” This didn't help - now I had two more definitions to look up! If anything, this was getting more complicated.

More page-flipping, then: “Obtuse—not quick or alert in perception or intellect; dull,” (was I being insulted?) “an angle GREATER than 90 degrees.”

Turning to my last definition, I prayed that once I read it everything would be clear: “Acute—sharp or severe in effect; intense pain,” (a good description of this experience) “an angle LESS than 90 degrees.”

What?? At this point everything wasn't clear at all. I was no closer to knowing what a rhombus was, let alone explaining it to Kelly. I’d also come to a painfully acute conclusion; I was too obtusely dull to figure it out.

Fortunately, as a self-reliant person with a can-do attitude, I knew the solution.

I looked at Kelly. “Dad should be home soon.”