When Laurel turned two, in a fit of self-righteousness, I threw away an odd assortment of sippee cups. The children really didn’t need them. Besides, I’ve always held that children who never drink out of regular cups never learn how to drink out of regular cups. So we primarily used some wide-bottomed juice glasses for their drinks. They got their juice, and I felt like an enlightened mother, especially when I saw school-aged children toting those cups at restaurants and at the park. Shocking, isn’t it?
I can see the Type A mothers smiling, because they’d much rather have a child with a sippee cup than spilled milk or broken glass, right? Well, in case you were doubting, I am not a Type A mother. I do not cry over spilled milk.
But I do have pride in my life.
My girls have been asking for new sippee cups for about six months. I’ve been resisting, Scot that I am, to spend money when they obviously had no need for sippee cups. (Haven’t they been using regular cups with only ocassional spills?) Actually, it was pride, not stewardship. Last week I finally bought two sippee cups, much to the delight of my daughters, and still I’ve been annoyed that they use them. That’s also pride, even though I didn’t call it that.
Sippee cups are not the reason for this post. Really, a mother is no more or less spiritual for choosing a particular cup. Pride, on the other hand, is insidious. It creeps in our lives, even as we are wailing about our inadequacy in one breath, and congratulating ourselves for our good sense, exclusive understanding, or great spiritual maturity in the next.
Pray with me today that God reveals our pride, because God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.