Pride Without Prejudice

We parents often wax about how proud we are of our children. Joey who conjugates verbs in Latin. At age five. Seven year old Emily who sings arias from La Boheme. Joshua who potty trained himself in a day. Martha, a fourth grader, who single-handedly clothed the homeless in her town. blah blah blah Pride too often turns to boasting. And no one likes a braggart. We daydream about our children’s valedictorian speech, game winning home run, multiple job offers out of school, book deal, lab coat with Dr. So-and-So embroidered on the lapel, wedding dances and so on. We parents focus on what our children do to make us proud, today and in the future. Pride, in its flirting tango with vanity, too often equals happiness in a twisted turn.

To think of the pressure that puts on kids!

I’m taking a different spin here.

What I hope for my sons is that they can be proud of me. I want them to look back on their upbringing and feel pride. I want them to know that Mac Daddy and I did our damndest to keep them safe, happy, nourished in mind and body and soul. I want Bird and Deal to reflect on a mother who chose them over all else. I want them to fondly remember their childhood and a mother who didn’t view her role as a sacrifice, but rather an honor. I shudder to think of the pain I myself felt when I thought I was a burden rather than a joy. It is such sadness I desperately want my sons to never experience. While they are young, innocent, impressionable, I wield the power of protection. And I know that time is limited, dwindling by the minute. I want my sons to be proud of the values we’ve taught them and the choices we made.

Mac Daddy and I choose family dinner at the table over happy hour with colleagues. We choose affection over acrimony. We choose togetherness over television. Sure, we do go to happy hour and weekend escapes. We do bicker argue fight. We do watch TV. But in every choice we make, we put our children first. They will know that time together trumps all and that life’s milestones are a mosaic of the inconsequential bits and pieces that we stumble upon every single day. I’m not speaking of martyrdom here. In fact, quite the opposite. My sons will always know that they are loved, wanted, cherished. Their self-esteem won’t be muddied with the baggage of sacrifice. Parenting is a sacrifice, but the rewards trounce the blues every time. Our sons will know that we made mistakes and went through many spells of cluelessness. There will be times they can’t stand us, and we just might feel the same. I have a hunch the teenage years will be, um, challenging. But Bird and Deal will know that we’re here. That we never left. That we never will.

My hope is that when they grow up they want to live close to us, to include us in their lives and let us sweep their families up in our arms in a tight embrace. My hope is that they don’t dread coming home for holidays (though I can assure you they will dread introducing me to their girlfriends). My hope is that we can spoil our grandchildren with our time, not things. My hope is that we grow and learn and love together. For a lifetime. My hope is that we grace those lovely boys with the gift of family pride.

When my sons are fathers one day and they look back at how we parented, if they feel pride instead of shame, my job as a mother will be complete. And I know that Bird and Deal will make me proud. They already do every single day. In ways big and small.