Pride

I know that Pride is wrong. In fact, it is a deadly sin…deadly - wow. That is a little strong if you ask me, but alas, no one asked me. I digress. There is a reason that I bring up the term “pride”. I am a father of two wonderful children. My daughter, Hannah, is 5 years old, and my son, Alex is 2. They are my greatest accomplishments. They are everything I could have hoped for when my wife and I decided to procreate. When I look at them, I get the urge to pat myself on the back and say, “Good Job”. Unfortunately, this feeling falls under the category of pride, and therefore is wrong. That sucks; I want to be proud, and dammit, I am going to be. 

I think of the times that my daughter has been on the stage performing a dance routine that in all actuality is awful and I should be more embarrassed than anything, but, for some reason, I am proud. I am proud of her movements that have nothing to do with the rest of the group. I am proud of her random, vacant stares into space when she should be bending, bowing, or prancing. I am proud that we chose not to paint her face like a street whore clown. I am proud of my daughter at this moment.

I think of my wife and how she keeps the family together. Without her being the glue, we would all fall apart. I am proud of her for this. I am proud that we went through trials and tribulations to get these children that we love so much. I am also proud (and appreciative) that she puts up with me and supports me in whatever I do. I am proud that she has resisted the urge to strangle our delightful little joys when they put us through their little tests.

I am proud of my son. He is only 2 years old, but he has been through more than most people will ever experience in a lifetime. He has made it through a heart condition that required open-heart surgery. This was a traumatic event, to say the least, but he made it through, and he is proud as well. I am proud. As he is young, I am proud of the future with my son. I look forward to the sporting events that he will participate in, and I am proud of what he will accomplish even though it has yet to happen. I am proud of how he will most likely follow in his sister’s footsteps in that he will wander around the soccer field aimlessly picking flowers. He will not have any idea what is going on most of the time, but he will know to kick the ball somewhere if it should come to him. And, he will stare, without purpose, at nothing at all. 

This brings me to my shining moment with my son. Forgive the “that’s my boy” moment, but it really is something to be proud of. Yes, he has made it through heart surgery, he began speaking at an early age, and he is even beginning to read a little, but there is one time that made me metaphorically shed a tear for my son’s accomplishment. You see, we are potty-training at this time and it is definitely an adventure with a boy. I had my son on the toilet taking care of business, when he looked at me with eyes of great concern and wonderment, and he said, “Daddy, I have to poo-poo.” Here we go. I knew, after traumatic experiences with my daughter that I should be prepared for the worst. I looked at him and replied, “Don’t worry, son. We will get through this together” as if we were actually speaking of destroying a meteor in the movie Armageddon. I was proud of him recognizing that he needed to go on the toilet and did not need to further defile his Mickey Mouse underwear. “Breathe,” I said. “Push,” I said. His toes began to wiggle and curl. We were past the point of no return. This was happening. As he was pushing, I couldn’t tell if the look on his face was one of pure terror or overwhelming excitement. His eyes were wide and his mouth was in the shape of what appeared to be a smile. There was now emotion involved in this process (I just didn’t know which emotion). He looked at me, “It’s coming, Daddy.” Yes, I felt like an OB/GYN talking to a mother in labor; except in this case, the “mother” was my son, and the “baby” was a turd. He lifted himself off the seat and began to perform, what looked to be, dips. After seeing this, I am quite certain he could probably tackle the rings exercise in gymnastics with no problem. He pushed and pushed to the point that his face shook uncontrollably, and I was fearful that he may pass out right then and there. Regardless, we were getting through this dump.

As I saw some relief and happiness return to his face, I knew the end was near…no pun intended. I was proud. He had done it…We had done it. We were both proud. We cleaned up and I took him off the throne, and as all men do, we looked. We looked at the poo and then looked at each other, and then, back at the poo. There was no other feeling in that little den of success than that of pride. He looked at me and said, “I did it, Daddy!” He looked down at the trophy, and in amazement declared, “That is a BIG poo-poo!” And, indeed it was. My son, at the age of 2, poops like a man…and I am proud. We flushed together as if we were turning the key to launch a torpedo out of a submarine. The toilet was officially clogged. As the waters rose in that great white basin, so too did my unabashed pride in my son.

So, Pride, albeit considered a deadly sin, is nothing to be ashamed of.