Pride. It comes before a fall, they say, in a way that makes you want to suppress it, like a fart. Taking pride, on the other hand, is a good thing – to do with ironed creases and polished shoes. Things that line up. Mother’s Pride, instead, is a kind of bread in a waxy bag, to be scoffed guiltily, toasted and slathered in toast and jam. I would suggest that we need a new way of talking about that splendid, uncontrollable smile of a feeling when you realise that one of your offspring (a person you made) is, indeed, a decent human being who improves the world for more than just their mummy.
