Pride

I just made my daughter’s bed. I’m not talking about sheets and blankets — but the actual making of a bed. She and her brother are sleeping on the floor — at least until we find a place to live. Other than the utter, first-world discomfort of camping in someone else’s home, things are going really well! However, when we got home late the night of the Fourth — because: fireworks — there were some tears.

Our hosts needed the pad my 12yo was sleeping on. When she saw the replacement mattress pad, her pride and indigence didn’t allow her to take the newer (and better) pad. She’s been sleeping in a nest of blankets, on the bare floor for the past few days. Today, in her absence, I remedied that situation.

I am expecting to see flashed of disgust when she realizes what I’ve done. I’ve pre-planned my reply. I’ll simply say, “I’m not going to let your pride ruin your sleep experience.”

And then it hit me. This has been my whole life — one of indignant pride. Someone wrongs me — I sulk. Why? Because I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of getting away with it. Someone lies to me. I turn away from them. Why? Because they are an imperfect excuse for humanity. Something I built gets dismantled. I sulk. I’m disappointed. I’m angry. And I don’t get over it.

Silly me — I was letting my pride get in the way of some great friendships, awesome times, and my own peace and happiness.

Silly me.