asking for help

I have come to the conclusion that I am not good at asking for help, relying on others, getting support. Who knew? As a result, I can become crazed at a moment’s notice if something goes wrong, not according to plan. (I do know that all of us with kids have to be especially flexible – and I am talking about rather flexible plans – though maybe I am not as flexible as I think).

Somewhere along the line (before Iz, I think), I learned to be “independent.” (I put the word in quotes because it seems like a positive way to describe oneself, and I don’t mean to present it that way.)

I live in a cute town in Prince George’s County, Maryland, and I have some friends – but I don’t call on them when I become crazed. I call Abraham – which is leading to some marital strife here and there.

It took a couple, good family friends – almost family –coming all the way from Sydney, Australia, to make me realize my problems with asking for help.

When Iz would not take his afternoon nap (and I had a date with a spinning bike and a bunch of last-minute editing jobs), they immediately offered (insisted, even) to take Iz to the grocery store with them (and they were going to make dinner!).

I don’t think I had displayed overly crazed behavior – raised, panicky voice, cursing, fatalistic ramblings – when I came downstairs with a clearly awake child. But I did spend far too much time with him last week. (Weekly babysitting fell through because the sitter’s kids were sick; Iz wouldn’t sleep, so I had to sleep with him last night; The list could go on.)

And I felt guilty, as if I had pawned my child off on houseguests. But they offered, they really wanted to help (and told me how lovely Iz is, how easy). I should not have felt guilty.