Damsel

Becoming a parent will turn your life completely upside down. You suddenly have this creature for whom you must perform many roles – safe space, nurturer, provider, protector. Becoming a single parent means performing all the roles when your children are under your care. You have to switch between being the gentle parent, the tough-love parent, the spider-killer, and the boo-boo kisser. Sending the kids off to your co-parent can mean a brief moment of freedom, but it often means rotting on the couch and disassociating until it’s time to pick up the kids.

I don’t like to ask for help. I don’t have a lot of confidence in my abilities so I overcompensate by refusing to ask for help unless I have tried to do something a hundred times and either physically cannot do it or it has become an abject emergency. I will openly list things that need doing, but won’t ask anyone for a hand. It feels like charity. It feels like I’m useless. It feels like I’m bothering people. And it is especially annoying to see someone fix my problem immediately, using the same method I tried until saw spots. I could have done that if I just kept trying. I shouldn’t have asked them.

The urge to be everything for someone, or three little someones, is strong. I am looking up videos for how to braid hair and considering having the women in my family over to help me learn to do girly things for my daughter (I can barely do my own hair) and then an hour later I’m thinking of ways to become rippled with muscles and imposing in case someone bullies my son. Neither are likely, as I’m clumsy and impatient with hair and clumsy and starving when pumping iron, but every moment is a new concern. Can I teach this kid to throw a football? Can I help that one with algebra? Not well, on both counts.

I thought I knew what my love languages were. I took the quiz and felt my results made sense at the time, because Words of Affirmation were very uplifting. As life changes, and I’ve changed, I’ve discovered a new way I prefer to be loved: Acts of Service I Didn’t Ask For.

The first people to love me this way were my parents. My mother will try some new skincare regimen and bring me some. She knows I wouldn’t spend that kind of money on face wash, or haven’t heard of the new super chemical that will magically make us youthful, and a package will arrive in the mail. “I thought you’d like this.” And there’s my dad, who uses my car to take the kids somewhere and brings it back with a full tank and all the goldfish vacuumed out. I loathe getting gas and a car wash seems pointless when the kids are just going to toss their snacks around the back seat the next time they’re being carted to an activity, but damn it feels good to get into a clean car full of gas. It’s an extra layer of peace and safety in a precarious world.

A month or so ago, the most bizarre thing happened. I was injured and unable to do some of my regular chores, and I got a text. “I know you won’t ask for help, but I am here to help you. Tell me what you need.” It didn’t seem like he’d known me enough time to see that so clearly, but apparently I wear that charming trait on a sandwich board. And so, knowing I would not ask, he showed up and started doing chores he saw needed to be done. I am a grumpy, frumpy, pain-stricken woman, and he is coming by after work to vacuum and take out the trash.

For a person born high-strung and nervous, making a list of items I need help with is not good for my brain. I feel guilty for asking, I feel guilty watching them work, and I cannot accept that they are helping in good spirits and don’t resent me. Showing up and seeing what needs to be done and doing it without being asked is alarming. I did have to talk myself off the “he thinks my house is filthy” ledge, because obviously if someone can walk into my house and immediately see it needs vacuuming it must be so disgusting I should just burn it down. But I did need help. I told myself I would get as much help as I could from my kids and then just wallow in our collective filth until I’d healed, but it was making me miserable.

Sometimes it’s difficult to be with a “doer” when you want an “empathizer.” My fireplace was broken and the builder wouldn’t respond, meanwhile Houston was gearing up for a freeze similar to those in past years that knocked out power. It seemed important that my gas fireplace work. I wanted to vent about the builder. Instead, he put his head in the fireplace, disassembled and reassembled it and got it working before the temperature dropped. I didn’t mean for him to bother with all that work, but also…he fixed my fireplace and I was not cold.

I fear I will be stripped of my Feminist Card, but sometimes it’s nice to be rescued. I’m not a damsel in distress, I wouldn’t have died without my fireplace (we didn’t lose power this time), but it feels nice to be saved on occasion. To be seen. I can do most things myself, but let’s be honest, there are a lot of things. Perhaps it’s a holdover from life as a stay-at-home mom. I don’t contribute financially, so I will be the doer of things! What a revelation to have someone say, “I know you can do it yourself, but let me.” Perhaps that’s cheating, because it’s a full helping of Acts of Service I Didn’t Request with Words of Affirmation gravy on top, but it’s delicious.

Valentine’s Day can be difficult, so what I wish for all of you is that you spend a moment appreciating anyone who can see what you need. It doesn’t have to be a partner, it could be a colleague, a friend, or family member. There are a handful of moments I can recall where I was stunned to be understood when I wasn’t aware I was broadcasting, and it’s a remarkable feeling. To have someone notice what you thought wasn’t worth noticing and lean in instead of backing away is a gift of love in itself.