Help Wanted

It was Ava’s first birthday party. My husband and I had rented out an event room at a golf course and we were expecting between 75 and 100 people. In preparation, I had hand crafted not only decorations, Ava’s personalized first birthday outfit, but also her cake...her first cake that I pictured her smashing her little hands into and enjoying every little gobble of frosting she got. (She’s our first kid so she literally had not had ONE TASTE of sugar before this party...) I had MATCHED THE FROSTING TO HER TUTU. Let me say that again...I was bat shit crazy enough to match my daughter’s cake to her clothes. I was really set on tying each and every detail of this baby’s party together. 

Long story short, the party was fantastic. A lot of people (A LOT) came to celebrate our amazing baby girl, she got spoiled as heck, and it felt like one of those HURRAHS because hey, we had made it through our first year as parents! *High five, Eric!* It was worth every penny, even though people have gotten married for less than we spent on that party. (Ha) 

There’s one part of that day, though, that I remember more vividly than any other part of the day. Like one of those memories where you can still smell the smells, hear the sounds, feel the sun and breeze, everything. 

While Eric and I were unloading all the supplies and taking them into the event room, guess what I did?

I dropped the cake. I f*cking dropped the cake, you guys. Right in the first parking space where everyone would be able to walk by and see what a douche I was for dropping my daughter’s first birthday cake. 

Of course, I had quite an expletive reaction, and my husband said, “THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR TRYING TO DO EVERYTHING!!!” (No one be mad at Eric for this. He was totally right. Turns out, I wouldn’t realize what he was trying to tell me until four plus years and two kids later...) 

Following the Cake Splat Heard Round The World, I started calculating in my head how I could go get a cake before everyone started showing up. My dad and my in laws had already arrived, and I felt horrible asking them for more help because they had already helped to prepare food. When I told Eric I didn’t know what i was gonna do, that Ava absolutely needed a birthday cake, he had a real simple solution, “Call Jed and Lindsay (my brother and sister in law). They’ll pick one up on the way here.” 

Not long after making the call that made my palms sweaty because i literally have a physical reaction to asking for help, Jed and Lindsay showed up with a cute little perfect cake with pink and purple frosting to match the party, and they were even able to get “Happy Birthday Ava” on it. I’ve never been so happy about cake, and I, like, really like dessert. 

So, why am I so intent on looking back on dropping that cake instead of on all the other things that happened that day? Because looking back, that moment embodied so much of why I thought being a mom was so freaking hard. 

As I raise daughters who may or may not become mothers someday, I have begun to challenge myself to look at whether or not I am living a life that I want them to use as an example. Growing up with a single dad, my experience was incredibly different when it came to witnessing parenthood. My dad did EVERYTHING by himself, both because he had to, and also because he is the lovely carrier of the “I can do everything myself” gene. 

It wasn’t until we had Lennon, our second baby, and had moved from Colorado to Oregon three weeks after her birth, that someone had given me the idea that asking for help isn’t weakness. On numerous occasions, my best friend would tell me, “Just let me help! I want to help!” 

Fast forward to the magical moment during Pregnancy Number Three, at the 36 week mark, when we were moving and I needed to clean our old house. My best friend (again) told me she would be there with bells on to help, and I felt guilty for making someone help me with such a horrible task, but the truth was that I couldn’t do it myself. 

And then, this sort of peace washed over me as we listened to some old school jams and I wiped out the fridge...that asking for help doesn’t make me incapable or decrease my value in any way. Why had I not been embracing the wonderful people around me who were so willing to lend a hand and really just wanted to show their love?! 

While I want to show my girls that moms can do ANYTHING, I need to also show them that they don’t have to do EVERYTHING. Welcoming help and making sure I’m taking care of myself is just as important as showing them that I can use Dad’s toolset while he’s gone...but can also ask him to be the handyman when he is home. Accepting help doesn’t make me an incompetent mom, it makes me a sane one. 

In a society where parents are critiqued endlessly, I want you to know that IT’S OKAY to ask for help. Seriously. It is the best advice I can give you. Let people help when they offer. Accept the meal train after a new baby, open the door when someone comes over to help clean, kiss your kid goodbye when someone offers to take them off your hands for a while. 

Because it doesn’t make YOU any less, to snag the opportunity to have to DO a little less. 

(I feel the need to give my best friend a shoutout for being a major reason that I can finally ask for and accept help...even if it does still make me cringe sometimes. Thank you for the constant willingness and eagerness to help, L, and for the reminder that accepting help isn’t a weakness. I’d die without you.)