Asking for It

My mother is here, and last night we made sweet potato soup. She has come from Connecticut with my step-dad to take care of us for a few days. My mother has always taken such good care of us. When she’s around, there’s nothing I’d rather be than a daughter, hers. 

What I’ve learned this week while Steve has been away skiing is that of course we can take care of ourselves, but it’s so important to ask for—and receive—help. When we are little, it comes naturally: “My mama, help me,” P will say when she is trying to get her sneakers on the right feet. And, without hesitation, I do. But as we grow, we mistakenly decide that we ought to be able to do everything by ourselves. We're not babies anymore. We are stubborn adolescents and then college graduates, professionals, and eventually mothers ourselves. We are more mothers than daughters, more adults than children. But of course we still need help. We may be capable and independent, but we’re not meant to live our lives in a vacuum.

When P was born my mother came to stay for two weeks. She cooked us meals and polished my grandmother’s tarnished silver and strung up our clothesline and kept me from going out of my mind while we were waiting for the baby to be born. Afterwards, she bought P and me new clothes, bathed her newest granddaughter, and went down to the city records department to chase down her birth certificate. Thinking ahead to her leaving, I started to bawl. My mother patted me on the back and said, “We weren’t meant to do this alone.” She was right, of course. And not just babies—all of life.

Before Steve left last week, he suggested I enlist my friends to come help me put the girls to bed each night. This may have been his guilty conscience talking, but it was good advice. Remembering my mother’s words, I sucked up my pride. It was surprisingly easy. It went like this: I asked for help, and my friends jumped at the chance. Reinforcements arrived each afternoon at 5:30, a blast of sunshine and smiles, to play with P and read to her while I fed M. They built block towers and knocked them over, spoon-fed P avocadoes, and did the dishes while I put M to bed. We bathed M in the kitchen sink, and P in the tub. They cuddled and kissed the girls goodnight. Then we had a glass of wine and listened together as the house grew very quiet and calm. I was not alone, and for that I was so grateful.

Sometimes a snarky voice would drone in my head: You should be able to do this yourself. You’re making such a big deal out of being alone. It’s only 10 days. This was my ego talking, and it wanted to be heard. Desperately. I’d listen and fret and feel like a wuss—but only until another friend arrived at my door. Then it felt so good to have asked for, and receive, help that my ego had nothing left to say. Love always trumps fear when you let it.

Now my mother is here, and we are cooking and feeding babies and doing mundane chores together—nothing I couldn’t do on my own. I all but begged her to come, but it feels so good to have her help. How can you argue with that?