Pride cometh before a fall

It has happened to me so often in my life that I should know it is coming. As soon as I get prideful, cocky or too sure of myself, something happens to bring me down a notch or two.

One of the most memorable experiences of this was, quite literally, a fall. I was just out of college and working on Capitol Hill. I was going somewhere--I have no idea where--and was all dressed up in a great suit and heels. I remember thinking that I looked great, felt great, was off to some great event. Life was grand. I was oh-so-confidently walking down the moving escalator at Capitol South. Then. Suddenly. I was falling. Down the escalator. Luckily, after a few steps, I caught myself. Even more luckily, I hadn't ripped my pants. Though, my leg underneath was pretty scraped up (how does that happen that your skin cuts but your pants don't rip?). My pride was a bit bruised, too.

So yesterday, as I sat on the couch cuddling with Lucas during an episode of Handy Manny, I should have known what was coming. I was sitting there with my almost-too-big-for-my-lap son on my lap thinking that it had been a really successful two days at home, just the two of us. (One my normal day off, the other a snow day.) We had a lot of fun playing out in the snow on three different occasions and we even did lots of fun activities in the house (we painted, played games and watched not-too-much TV). I had straightened up, conquered a mountain of laundry, shredded and made really great dinners each night. I was feeling like I had everything under control and was feeling pretty proud of that fact.

Until. My lap started feeling a little warm. And wet.

Yes, Lucas, who is rarely having an accident these days, peed all over me. And him. And the couch.

Pride. Then the fall.