There’s pride and there’s parental pride and they are two different things.
The pride I take in my own achievements, I can handle – after all my achievements aren’t all that great.
My family and loyal friends will protest: “But Jo, they ARE” and I’ll say: “No, no, anyone could have done it if they’d worked as hard as I did/had as much luck/support/education as me” and I’ll believe what I’m saying. (Or at least I think I will.)
The primal torrent of parental pride
The pride I feel for my four-year-old son, Arch, is something different all together. It is a primal torrent that exudes from my being flooding through any poxy modesty filters I might have created for the sake of social niceity.
It has been there from the moment he was born and threatens to burst forth whenever a friend or stranger inoccently asks: “How’s Arch?” It’s so powerful, it’s obscene. It’s so indecent, I worry that it shouldn’t be let out in public.
What if anyone sees the pride I feel for my son? What if it gets muddled up with the hideously unpalatable envy and competitiveness that seems to be part of the fabric of middle-class parenting?
What do other parents do with their pride?
Fellow parents, can you help me with this one? What do you do with the pride you feel for your children? Do you hide it? Do you wallow in its glow? Do you share it with close friends but conceal it from the parents of your children’s classmates?
Let me know, please. Share your pride – before I burst…