Iām still learning after almost 12 years of being a parent. Learning about my children, about my beliefs and about myself. And it follows that, like peeling the layers of an onion, the most uncomfortable things Iāve yet to examine are closest to the core. Itās part of letting go of that persona Iāve worked so hard to build up over my adult life: The independent, self-assured, I-can-do-it-myself woman that doesnāt need or want anyoneās assistance.Ā
But the truth is, I do.Ā
I recognize that over my adult life the time Iāve spent helping others has been significantly lopsided. As an artist manager, Iād even built a career around it! Beyond that, it didnāt matter to me if they were dear friends, people Iād just met or people Iād never meet. If there was something I could do to make someone elseās difficult situation a little bit easier I would ā even if it made things significantly more complicated for me.
And, if Iām totally honest, when the chips are down, as they were recently, it doesnāt feel unreasonable to expect a bit of the same in return. Except Iāve rarely given anyone the opportunity to lend a hand. I have little to no experience in asking for help, and it turns out that when I do, people donāt tend to hear it that way.
And thatās not their fault; itās mine.Ā
Recently, after a month of solo parenting, I put out what I considered to be an extremely vulnerable admission of needing the support of my friends and acquaintances. Instead of being bombarded with invitations, I came up virtually empty-handed and was forced to examine how my pleas were being perceived.Ā
This is sort of how it went down: I confided in a dear friend that I was functioning on little more than kombucha fumes, was quick to anger, and could not for the life of me find any joy in my summer parenting adventure any longer.
We brainstormed. He urged me to be brave, cast a wider net, and put out a call for help. So I created a post on social media that read: āThe girls and I have been on our own for a month now. Iām not too proud to say Iām currently accepting dinner invitations for the next couple of nightsā¦ we will eat anything. No guarantees we can behave but I can bring wine to make it more bearable.ā And because youāre supposed to, I attached a cute photo of a vintage grill laden with delicious looking skewers. Because, barbecued meat!Ā
What felt like a soul-baring acknowledgment of not being able to cope with being alone another hour with my kids, whose behaviour had devolved into that of zoo monkeys, was in fact, upon deeper reflection, merely a flippant request for someone to cook for me ā maybe because I was tired of doing it myself. This wasnāt even close to the truth, seeing as I had resorted to getting take-out 10 days prior. At least I had that part covered.
Honestly, I felt that if I didnāt make the call on my own, one of the neighbours would surely be contacting a psychiatric hospital to have me committed at the earliest possible juncture. In fact, I was sort of hoping they would. I was too tired to try and find the number myself.Ā
I wasnāt nearly truthful enough in my post about what I needed or how I was doing. And in hindsight, a thoughtful email sent to a select group of friends might actually have been more fruitful if I could had A) thought to do it, and B) felt vulnerable enough to tolerate a similar lack of response from my inner circle. But what about Option C? Actually picking up the phone and calling a select few?
What I can say is that after publishing my relatively ineffective social media post I did feel better for having made āThe Askā despite it not being taken all that seriously. In the end, the girls and I did manage to eek out two dinner invites that turned around our week and gave us all something to look forward to. We ate delicious meals with good company ā friends who genuinely surprised us with their hospitality ā and for which I am forever grateful.Ā
Getting to know oneself is certainly an unending process. I only hope my children can learn by the example Iām setting ā even when my example isnāt perfect.
