GISHWHES and Mommy Guilt

A pack of my friends is participating in GISHWHES this year, which is a lovely thing.  I was invited to play along, too, but I had to be very honest with myself that I would not have the time and would only drag the team down.

(based on what I've seen my friends scrambling around doing, I made the right call.)

Anyway, one of the items on the "scavenger hunt" was to do five chores for a mother, and my Katie called dibs on doing that one, and then reached out to me.

Now listen, this is not the first time over the past year that someone (generally speaking, a female) has told me that they are more than happy to come over to my house and help me with chores, cooking, cleaning, whatever.  I have almost never taken them up on it.  Not because I don't deeply appreciate the offer, not because I don't desperately need the help, just because... well, because of many complex layers of guilt and inferiority and pride.

But here's the the thing.  My Katie told me about this scavenger-hunt-thingy she's doing, and I was able to actually take her up on her offer of help because her helping me was me helping her.  Just enough of a semantic play to trick me into being able to accept that help.  Which, again, I needed.  We leave for Alabama tomorrow, and my To-Do list was ridiculous.  But Katie did five items on that list- little things, really, because I couldn't trick myself enough to ask for help with anything truly arduous- and the impact of those five little things?  Huge.  I got home from work and my floors were swept and vacuumed and I literally wanted to cry because I didn't have to do it.  I could just enjoy it while I moved on to the next To Do.

So thanks, GISHWHES.  Thanks for absolving me of my Mommy Guilt.

(And also thanks to my Katie, who took out my freaking recycling.)

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