The end of March and beginning of April have found me in fool’s bells. A month ago, my husband said he thought our cow was pregnant. I went out and looked at her myself—being an expert on bovine pregnancy and all—and declared him mistaken.
“She’s not pregnant,” I said confidently. “She’s nowhere near as big as she was last time.”
But Bossy proved me wrong.
Weeks later, loud moos echoed up from the creek bed. Our daughters came running.
“Mom! Bossy is mooing really loudly! What if she’s having a calf?”
“She’s not having a calf,” I replied. “She’s probably in heat. But if she doesn’t stop, tell Dad. Maybe she’s hurt.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were back.
“BOSSY HAD A BABY!”
“NO WAY!” I shouted.
But yes. I was wrong.
Misguided. Mistaken. Since then, I’ve had to admit I’ve been wrong about all sorts of things: facts historical and otherwise; which direction to turn to get where I’m going. I’ve been mistaken, wrong, confounded, hasty—over-reaching, puffed up, vain, and sometimes downright pompous.
And I’ve done all of this in front of witnesses.
And they’ve laughed.
I like being wrong when it ends in something delightful. I don’t mind laughing at myself—or being laughed at—when the surprise is a good one. But there are other moments, too. Moments when I’m forced to see my arrogance laid bare, and it’s not a pretty sight.
I’m old enough to have been wrong many times. But somehow, I still think I’m right most of the time. I must believe I’ve lived long enough to know a pregnant cow when I see one—though, if I’m honest, I’ve only ever known one pregnant cow in my life. And her name is Bossy.
So this month, I’m an April fool. And I’m reminded not to take myself too seriously. To keep a humble heart and a nimble mind. To smile. To speak with a little more hesitation, a little less certainty.
To listen better.
To show others the respect of believing they might just be right.
Leave a Reply