Over the course of our twenty year relationship there have been three times when hubby voluntarily admitted he was wrong. The first time, we had been dating three months when he walked into the room, put his arms around me, and sincerely stated, “I’m sorry I raised my voice to you.”
I did not realize he had raised his voice, so this out of the blue apology not only took me by surprise but warmed my heart. How lucky was I to have a guy that willingly admitted his mistakes?
His father tried to warn me of the truth. “Pride doesn’t run in this family. It gallops!” he quipped.
But I just smiled and thought to myself, “There is no way my sweetheart will ever be as prideful as his father.” Boy was I wrong.
For the next seventeen years, he never made another mistake. Or should I say, he never willingly admitted his mistakes. Apparently, his apology on that day early in our relationship was simply a ploy designed to make me think he was sensitive.
In actuality it is like pulling eye teeth to get the guy to admit something even as minor as peeing on the toilet seat. I can’t pee in that direction if I try, so obviously it belongs to him. But he won’t admit it until we get the DNA results back from the lab.
Fortunately, things have gotten better in recent years. Either he has finally matured enough to realize that he is occasionally wrong, or he’s decided it’s easier to apologize right off the bat and skip the part where I call in a jury and produce forty-two pieces of evidence to prove my case.
We still have our moments though. A few weeks ago I actually left him because he refused to admit that he was the one that started the argument we were having. I drove around for twenty minutes to make sure he knew I was serious and then called from my cell phone for his apology. Instead of an apology I heard, “I just need to know if you’re coming home or if I can go ahead and start the movie.”
Of all the prideful, arrogant….oh, I was angry! I was so angry I told him I didn’t know if I’d be home or not, but he better not start that movie without me. And then we ended the phone call by saying, “I love you,” (through gritted teeth) because for twenty years we have never, ever had a parting conversation that did not end with those words.
Last Sunday it was our family’s turn to provide special music for the morning worship service. This entails driving separate vehicles so that we can lug all of our musical instruments, including an upright bass. Hubby always makes it clear that we need to arrive early in order to get tuned up. However, we have five kids, including a teenaged daughter who has to look extra nice because she just got her first boyfriend, so it is nearly impossible to get there on time, let alone early.
Twenty minutes before the service was scheduled to start we were standing in the driveway, barking out orders to the kids about which vehicle should carry which instruments, strapping babies into car seats, double checking the diaper bag (which ended up at church without baby formula), and running back inside the house for forgotten Bibles.
As our little caravan pulled out of the driveway, fourteen-year-old son dejectedly revealed that dad had grounded him for loading a lawn chair on top of the bass. Obviously an irresponsible move! I told him not to worry about it. Daddy was just irritated because we were late and as soon as he calmed down he would realize he had overreacted.
After the service, son happily informed me that dad said he would lift the punishment if the instrument cases were neatly stacked.
“See? I knew he would come around. That was your dad’s way of correcting his mistake without admitting he was wrong. That sort of thing is hard for him, but he’s working on it.” Then I patted him on the knee and said, “I hope you remember this, because when you grow up I would like for you to break this cycle of pride and be the first Truitt man able to admit when he’s wrong.”
Son gave me an incredulous look. “But mom! I’m never wrong!”
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