I can be really stubborn. I know this about myself, and my family knows it too. Stubbornness is not a trait that I attempt to cultivate. In fact, it is just the opposite. I am continually reminding myself to be flexible and open. Many years ago, I learned that my stubbornness does not serve me well.

When I was about six years old, I got mad at my mom about something. I cannot remember what the source of my anger was. I do remember being so upset that I was going to show her. I went into my room determined not to emerge until it was absolutely necessary which in this case probably meant the next morning to go to school. It was a Sunday; I remember this too because it figures prominently in the story I am sharing.

So there I was sulking in my room, my very purple bedroom. Although we moved frequently, my mom always made it a point to set up my room right away and encouraged my input on the decor.  At that point in my life, I loved purple. As a special gift, my grandmother’s neighbor had made me a purple afghan and pillow cover. I loved it. I likely dragged in our overweight cat for company. As I stewed in my room, my mom would knock on my door once in a while to see if I wanted to come out. In my younger self’s perception of time, it felt like hours and hours. My mom tempted me with ice cream. Not just ice cream from the freezer but ice cream from my favorite ice parlor. It was a place with Old West style, swinging doors and games. I liked the atmosphere of the place more than the actual ice cream. 

Finally, I decided enough was enough. I would ‘let’ my mom take me for ice cream. I wasn’t necessarily admitting defeat, just allowing for a truce. I came out of my room and announced that I was ready to go. Gently, my mom informed me that it was too late. It was Sunday evening, and the ice cream shop was now closed. She took no pleasure in delivering the bad news. Exhausted and disappointed with the clear knowledge that there was no one to blame but myself, I accepted her hug.

Last week, I found myself in a moment of stubbornness. I wasn’t going to be told what to do or how to behave. My husband’s well-meant suggestion to reach out to someone with whom my relationship feels complicated stirred my stubborn streak. Then the ice cream story came to mind as I began to dig into my self-righteous stance. What was I trying to prove? Was this going to make me feel better? There was nothing to prove, and I would feel much worse.

The ice cream lesson helps me navigate my stubborn nature, and I am not even an ice cream person.