I have a hard time asking for help.
It’s not that I have some kind of super-hero complex or want to be a martyr. In fact, I really do wish I had more help most of the time. But things tend to fall into one of the following categories:
1. I signed-up to do/make/bring/coordinate/facilitate/write/teach the thing and therefore I feel like it’s my responsibility to follow through.
2. The amount of time it would take to explain how to help seems more effort than the benefit of the help itself, or
3. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone else.
Inevitably, I say yes to too much (I’m working on that), or life throws a few curve balls my way, and I end up feeling overwhelmed, stretched, depleted, and weighed down by all of the responsibility. This typically results in either a total anxiety-ridden cry-fest, followed by complete shut-down and to-do-list-paralysis until sleep-deprived, last-minute panic mode sets-in. OR it results in silently glowering at my family as they happily do all the nothings that fill their time (such as playing Words With Friends, brushing up on their ukulele skills, or dressing up the cat), while I resentfully take care of the rest.
Recently I had one of those lovely anxiety-ridden cry-fests at the side of my husband and explained how very lonely it was to be the one who carried it all (or at least felt like that). He nodded and held my hand. Listened to all of my very big feelings and then we discussed how he could help lessen my burden. But deep down I still felt like it would be a temporary fix, because this is not unfamiliar territory for us, after nearly 20 years of marriage. The nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach was the help would come for a few days, patchwork for the most pressing cracks in the dam, and then, in a few weeks, things would return to normal.
And so the cycle goes.
But a few days after our conversation, I came home already tired and sighed as I looked at the ingredients laid out on the counter, “well, I guess I better get started on these pies or they won’t be ready for tomorrow,” I said to my husband.
(For some reason, I had gotten the hair-brained idea that making pies from scratch this year would be such a lovely project in lieu of our usual go-to — the local Farmer’s Market pies. I blame Netflix and The Great British Baking Show.)
And he said, “do you want some help?”
My knee-jerk reaction — the response I keep in my pocket and pull out as common practice for crazy projects that I signed myself up for when I should have known better and I assume the one offering help is just being polite and doesn’t really mean it — was “no”. But before I could form the words on my lips, I paused.
The whisper inside my heart said, “say yes.”
Eyeing him carefully to see if he would be disappointed at my answer, if this was really a half-hearted offer, I said, “that would be really wonderful, thank you.”
He smiled and said, “OK, what do you need me to do.” No sigh, no rolled eyes, no drooping, resigned shoulders.
And you know what? We made pies.
We made delicious pies.
And we listened to Christmas music and laughed and maneuvered around each other in the kitchen like practiced professionals.
It was perhaps my most favorite thing I did that week, maybe the entire month.
Because we did it together.
Because I was able to be in the moment and not focus on how tired I was or how much my feet hurt.
Because it really does take two people to get the rolled out dough into the pie plate without it breaking!
Because there was no resentment. No feeling sorry for myself.
Instead, I just felt grateful.
And I realized, maybe when someone offers to help, they really mean it. Maybe it’s worth the effort to explain what needs to be done because doing it with a partner will make it more fun, if not faster. Maybe people don’t find it an inconvenience to help the ones they care about.
Maybe pies taste better when made in a kitchen filled with laughter and gratitude.