I am terrible when it comes to saying ‘yes’. Not to the big stuff, no. I mean, I practically screamed it when my husband asked me to marry him. I’m terrible at saying yes to the little things, which is worse, really.
What is it about accepting help, about saying YES? What makes it so difficult to admit that sometimes, we could use a hand?
A month ago I had my second son, and I wasn’t totally prepared for what it really meant to have a toddler and a newborn at the same time. I am pulled in a dozen different directions at once, am constantly expected to tend to the needs and demands of one of them at the exact moment the other one needs me…and I’m doing this all with spit up on my shoulder and the baby on my breast.
I know from experience that there is light at the end of this sleep deprived tunnel, but God, I am ragged.
It’s not going unnoticed, and the offers of help from family and friends have come in. For the life of me, though, I can very rarely bring myself to take them. My mother-in-law will ask,”Do you want me to vacuum and do the dishes?”, but all I hear is, “You’re house is one dirty dish away from an episode of Hoarders”, and so, I decline out of stupid pride.
Well, pride isn’t getting my house clean, I’ll tell ya.
The rational part of my brain is off somewhere canoodling with the part that holds onto obscure 90s pop music, but I’m pretty sure it would tell me to get over myself and give in a little. To say yes, to allow someone to help. (Then it would probably hum a few bars of Gina G.’s “Ooh, aah, just a little bit.”)
So here it is, Internet. I’m saying yes. Or at least, I’m really going to try. Because I sure could use some right now.
Or man, a nap. I could REALLY use a nap.