“Now darling,” I said.  “There’s something you need to learn and it’s very important.

“When somebody gives you a present, you must say: ‘Thank you very much’ whatever you think of it.  Even if you don’t like it, even if you’ve already got it, remember the people who gave it to you have been thoughtful and kind – so thank them.”

Learning to say thank you

I had no faith in Arch’s ability to learn this lesson so, at his party, I was in full control-mode whisking presents out of his hand to avert social calamities. “We’re having far too much fun to open them now, aren’t we?”

The crunch came a few days later when friends dropped by with a late present for Arch and we had no reason (pretend or otherwise) not to open it there and then in front of them.

Arch eagerly tore at the wrappings. It was Mr Men pants. I curled my toes – too young for him, not his thing, nothing he could play with…. What was Arch going to say?

“Thank you very much,” he said,  confidently looking my friends in the eye.

Afterwards I sat Arch on my knee and told him how proud I was of what he had done.

“Yes,” he said. “I thought I was going to like the present – but I didn’t. It was boring.”

Learning to put on a mask

“It was,” I said, “but you learnt something very important about not hurting people’s feelings.  I’m really proud of you darling. Well done.”

But as I said the words, I felt my heart contract.

If what Arch has learnt was so good and useful – why had it made me sad?

My pride at my four-year-old son, Arch, felt so overwhelming I felt it should not be seen in public. I wondered how other parents handled (or concealed) this obscenely primitive emotion.

As a result I have had three very helpful conversations, two on Facebook and one in the flesh, about the dilemma. (Is it a coincidence that the three people who helped me did not have children themselves?)

Our collective ambivalence about pride

One discussion was about our ambivalence about pride of any kind. Is it good or is it bad?

We expect people to take a pride in their work, for example, but if they are too proud we wag our fingers at them: “Pride comes before a fall.”

I look in the dictionary and see it means both “excessive self-esteem” and “self-respect, personal dignity.”  Those are two very different things – opposites even – and yet the same word covers both. No wonder it’s confusing.

And then there’s that interesting point about whether we can be proud of something that has got nothing to do with us. I would not think so – and yet I am.

I’m proud to be a citizen of a country with a national health service. Did I have anything to do with the creation of the NHS? No, but I’m proud of it nonetheless.

My pride in Arch feels like that kind of thing.

Is gratitude a better word than pride?

One Facebook friend suggested gratitude might be a better word for the kind of emotion I was describing than pride.

I like that idea. It certainly neatly evades all the ambiguities about “pride” and therefore makes the experience of the feeling easier.

Was I proud to see Arch playing the part of a star in his first nativity play earlier this week?

Let’s put it like this. The day he was born I dropped to my knees and said: “No matter how long I live, I will never be able to express the depth of my gratitude that this archangel has come to make his home with us.”

I haven’t stood up since.

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…