Sometimes wrong is better than right
There are times in life when it seems vitally important to do and say the right things:
This is particularly true for me now; at a time when I’m spending every evening writing cover letters and re-jigging my CV. It is important to not only make myself sound right for each job, but also to believe myself right for it – as I’ve said before, I’m cautious about putting myself forward for things unless I know there’s a reasonable chance I could be successful at it. Character flaw perhaps…but at least it’ll limit the number of applications I’ll have to write!
There are also times in life when you wish that other people would do and say the right things:
Sam’s name for me used to be ‘Me’. Understandable really as I’m not very good at referring to myself in third person…and there hasn’t been a Daddy around to take the lead and address me as ‘Mummy’ in his presence. I’ll admit to secretly loving having a special nickname, but it didn’t half confuse some people – they would look bewildered and frustrated each time their request to ‘give that to me’ resulted in Sam trotting over to ‘Me’. It also made me shudder a bit when Sam used to try to get my attention in public: ‘Me! Me! Me! Me! MEEE!’ - imagine how spoilt he must have sounded! There’s only a teeny part of me that regrets him dropping this special nickname.
I also wish he would hurry up and pronounce ‘Grandma’ correctly. I think it’s cute that she is currently ‘Ramaaa’, but in his excitement this is often corrupted to ‘Mama! Mama! Mama!’ – Tiny (/huge) stab in the heart each time I hear it.
BUT…there are times in life when wrong is irrefutably better than right:
In an argument, when you’ve realised that in fact your adversary was right all along; When it turns out your suspicions about a loved one’s ill-health are right; When a relationship can’t work even when you 100% believe you are right for each other – how much easier would it be to get over someone if you could admit that he was ‘wrong’ for you? (Sorry for that teenagerish addition – I’m still in the depths of the mourning period!)
…And also when, after two years of blissful uncertainty, your mum confirms your fears that you pooed yourself during childbirth.
On a nicer note of how wrong is sometimes better than right:
This morning, Sam was about to do something naughty, so I used my sternest voice to say his full name: ‘…Samuel Pibbs…’ He looked up at me, and, perfectly mimicking my voice and facial expression, replied with: ‘…Bicki Pig…’ I shouldn’t have laughed but just couldn’t help it. His impersonation was so accurate, and it was such a shock that he knew my full name. (My surname isn’t really Pibbs, but friends should be able to work out what he actually said from this slightly strange codename.)
It was lovely in town today having numerous strangers telling me to have a good day, on account of Sam’s constant warbling of ‘Happ peeee Burrrrrrday Mummieeeee’.
Birthdays have been a recurrent theme since Sam turned two just over a month ago. I tried to explain why it was such an exciting day: ‘You’re two today, Sam.’ He looked a little confused and asked ‘…Too hot?’ Smiling, I clarified ‘No sweetie; two years’. He grinned, nodded, and said ‘Two EARS!’ whilst pointing to his ears. You can’t blame me for beaming and saying ‘Yes, that’s right!!’
I’ll get my comeuppance one day, but for the moment I am very much enjoying my daily ritual of asking Sam how old he is, and seeing him grab his ears and say ‘Two EARS!!’