I found myself crouched outside a public restroom stall, a hefty bag of 30 library books dangling from my shoulder—an essential for any homeschooling parent—and attempting to soothe my loudly protesting 3-year-old. He was adamant about entering the stall alone, mimicking his older brother, and of course, he chose the one toilet that erupted like a volcano when flushed.
In the meantime, my 6-year-old was perched on the counter, trying to reach the sink to wash his hands, while my 2-month-old clung to me like a tiny, fragile sloth. Unfortunately, I’d left my trusty ring sling at home; my smoothie had splattered across the car earlier that day, leaving my favorite baby carrier coated in a blueberry kale mess—the very smoothie I’d hurriedly prepared but never got the chance to drink. My quest for health was clearly not going as planned. Later, I would find solace in chocolate chips hidden away in my pantry, but that’s a different story.
Back to the restroom—at that moment, the most stunning young woman entered the scene. There we were: a flustered mom juggling books and a baby; a wailing preschooler; a toilet threatening to overflow; and a soap-covered older brother creating chaos. This beautiful 22-year-old in her athletic attire looked at me, wide-eyed and slightly bewildered, and compassionately asked, “Do you need some help?”
This was the third time in just a week that a stranger had offered assistance. The first instance involved a gusty day, a cart overflowing with groceries, and a runaway apple in a crowded parking lot. The second time was another restroom debacle, this time featuring faulty stall locks and me balancing a bowl full of oranges (don’t ask). Each scenario had the same familiar cast: the overwhelmed mom, her baby, a distressed preschooler, a messy older sibling, a cumbersome diaper bag, and the concerned stranger.
“Do you need some help?”
How helpless must I appear? Each time, I felt a sting of indignation at the implication that I might need assistance. After all, isn’t motherhood about managing everything, plus a little extra? So, I responded consistently: “No, thank you. We’re fine. Really.” But deep down, I knew I was far from fine. In fact, I often ended up retreating to my pantry, munching on chocolate chips to cope with the chaos.
What if I had been honest? Yes, lovely stranger, I could use your help. Remind me that I was once 22, too, that the carefree girl still exists somewhere beneath this diaper bag I’ve used as a purse for six years and these sagging maternity jeans I still wear two months postpartum. Remind me that she’s still there, despite the books, diapers, and countless hours spent in public restrooms. Help me see the beauty in myself at this moment, just as I am.
Yes, kind older woman, please assist me. Tell me you once felt overwhelmed, that you’ve had days when you too thought about running away, just to gather yourself. Share that you’ve cried in your car, doubted your abilities, and still emerged on the other side. Even if you don’t know me, reassure me that everything will be alright—that my kids will be okay, and that the world will eventually make sense again.
What might have happened if I had accepted their help?
Accepting kindness and grace is a challenge for me. Most days, I feel much like my wailing 3-year-old, trapped in a stall of my own making, struggling to break free of my pride. If only I could quiet the noise in my head for just a moment, I might hear a calm voice saying, “I’m here. Let me in to help.”
If you’re interested in more insightful and heartwarming stories like this, check out this post from our other blog, which provides great resources on home insemination and parenting. Sites like Make a Mom offer valuable information, and IVF Babble is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, letting go of pride can open the door to support and understanding from others, reminding us that we’re not alone in our struggles as parents. Accepting help can lead to a more fulfilling and connected experience, allowing us to embrace the beautiful chaos of motherhood.