I was convinced that when I became a parent, we’d be the kind of parents who made their own baby food. This wasn’t any sort of value judgment. I didn’t think parents who made baby food were better parents than those who bought baby food. I didn’t associate baby-food-making with a parenting philosophy (I’m terrible at getting behind parenting philosophies, because I just get bored and revert to whatever works). But I did think we’d make our own baby food. It just made sense within the context of our family. We cared a lot about fresh and tasty food made with simple ingredients, and we generally like to save money by steering away from prepackaged food. It was an obvious choice.
I didn’t have Pinterest boards full of baby food recipes or anything, but I’d virtually clipped a few blog posts over the years. We even almost registered for one of those baby-food puree machines, till a friend told me it was a waste of money. Making baby food was one of those ideas I held onto about what-having-kids-would-be-like, because it just made sense to me.
You see where this is going, right? Yeah. Turns out that not only did we not make baby food, we bought tons of those stupidly expensive food packets. Still do, actually. Our kid loves feeding himself with them so much that “PA-KIT” was one of his first two syllable words.
It’s not that we didn’t attempt it. We did, once or twice. Once, early on, David spent an hour plus proudly concocting a steamed and puréed carrot recipe, spiced with just enough cinnamon to be perfectly delicious. Turns out the one vegetable the kid hated was carrots. David tried not to get his feelings hurt. We tried again with a different vegetable, and I think the resulting mush is still in our deep freeze.
I struggled with the guilt. Every so often I would read yet another thoughtful blog post about cooking baby food, about how easy it was, and how much money it saved. I’d read about how it only took one afternoon a weekend, and it saved you tons of money. Then I’d look at our grocery bill with all those stupid squeeze packs on it, and feel horrible about myself again. I’d suggest to David that we carve time out of the next weekend to do the project, and he’d nod along, looking slightly overwhelmed. And then it wouldn’t happen.
Turns out, it was really this simple: we were a family with two working parents with pretty high stress jobs, who were trying insanely hard to leave the intensity at work and enjoy family time. The truth was, at this particular juncture in our lives, we had the disposable income to afford packets of food, but we didn’t have a ton of time all together. As easy as making baby food seemed, we just didn’t want to spend Sunday afternoons making doing it. We wanted to spend Sunday afternoons lying on the floor of the nursery, rolling a ball back and forth with the two other people we didn’t see that much during the week. I still think homemade baby-food is a great idea. I’m even willing to pretend will do it next time. But this go ’round? We did PA-KIT’s. And it was okay.
It’s In The Bag
Nice conclusion, right? I figured out the kind of person I was, learned to work with it, and was happy ever after. Except not. Because the second I thought the problem had resolved itself with solid food, we ran into the issue of snacks. Snacks are apparently a thing toddlers need, with great desperation, at the drop of a hat. Particularly when at the playground. Ideally with nice, fresh, icy cold milk. And here, instead of just not wanting to make time to solve the problem, I felt like I could not manage to get my shit together. Ever.
I honestly thought that becoming a mom suddenly made you really responsible about packing snacks. Homemade snacks. One of my somewhat ephemeral theatre friends got accidentally pregnant at about twenty-four, and ever after she was fantastic with snacks. So I figured it just happened. Turns out, not so much if you’re me. But unlike with baby food, I didn’t just take the easy road and then feel guilty about it. Instead, I decided that if I couldn’t pack homemade snacks, we were just not having snacks.
We ended up at the park without snacks so many times that my barely one-year-old figured out that the other parents kept their snacks under strollers. I would look away for a second, and the child would be rooting around under a stroller with a handful of delicious looking snacks in his hand, and I’d have to pull him away and apologize, while he stood there stuffing his face and not looking the slightest bit guilty. Sometimes it would happen four or five times in a row, with different strollers and different snacks each time. Fantastic.
So when NatureBox offered to let me try out their service of healthy, pre-made snacks delivered right to our door, I was all over it. I mean, honestly, it’s possible I’d just gotten to the point where I couldn’t help but admit I wasn’t cutting it on my own. Finally, snacks I didn’t have to make! I got to pick my own snacks (they have over a hundred to choose from; Pistachio Power Clusters, French Vanilla Almond Granola, and Dried California Peaches were the favorites in our house). They arrived in little orange re-sealable bags, and suddenly I had guilt-free, nutritionist approved, unusual, and delicious food at my fingertips.
And turns out, they weren’t just for the park. They were also for me, in the middle of the day. Because that thing where I’d refused to buy snacks? I wasn’t just doing it to the kid, I was doing it to myself too. So mid-afternoon, I’d be starving with a huge pile of work in front of me. Suddenly I had granola to get me through the afternoon, and dried peaches to get us through the park.
Help is a Four Letter Word
Of course, this story really has nothing to do with parenting, nor is it just about snacks. It has everything to do with growing up, and reconciling the kind of adult I thought I’d be with the kind of adult I am. It also has a lot to do with asking for help.
Our perpetual debate is about whether or not women can have it all. And aside from the fact that it’s the wrong question—no one can have it all, all at the same time—framing the conversation this way also implies that “having it all” means doing it all ourselves. God forbid you have too much childcare help, or a nanny, or are otherwise doing something that could be deemed “not raising your child yourself.” (As if, by the way.) Heaven forfend that you depend on food not cooked from scratch in the comfort of your own kitchen. Let’s not even ponder what it means if you don’t clean your own house, or mow your own lawn. And that’s not even touching on the fact that women are now supposed to make sure their child’s every moment is crammed with emotionally rewarding and developmentally advancing activities. Oh yeah, and most of us have ever-more-demanding outside-the-home jobs too (or inside the home, in my case).
It’s taken me a while, but in the last few months I’ve thrown in the towel, and given up on the guilt. Because obviously I can’t do it all, without help. Help comes in a lot of forms: friend help, family help, paid help, technology help, help from innovative companies. But before you can get it, you have to give yourself the okay to ask for it.
Accepting help looks totally different in different people’s lives (or in different junctures in your own life). But right now, I’m running a growing company, trying to get through an endless-seeming pile of work, and working hard to be responsible for my staff’s income and livelihood (not to mention providing for my family). Something has to give. And since I don’t want to scale back my company and let staff go, that means I have to ask for, accept, and sometimes even pay for, help in my personal life. And that says nothing about the quality of my character. In fact, if it gives me a chance to support awesome businesses and pay people I respect, all the better.
So I’m starting to come to terms with making room in my budget (and my psyche) for occasional housekeeping and gardening help. Our family has already carved out a huge space in our hearts (and wallets) for our kid’s care providers—women who love him, including his beloved honorary second mom. I’m getting way better at letting friends know when I’m about to crack from lack of sleep and need a night away from the baby. I’m trying to learn to be nice to myself about it and ask for help as a form of self-care. (I, like so many of us, like helping other people—both as part of my profession and in my personal life. And yet I’m so terrible at giving myself the okay to receive help.)
And yes. I’m even giving myself permission to accept help in the form of healthy snacks that arrive on my doorstep like magic. Because if I’m going to try to do it all (with lots and lots of help) at least I shouldn’t be doing it hungry.
How about you guys? How is the adult you are not the same as the adult you thought you’d be? How are you coming to terms with that? And how are you letting yourself off the hook and asking for help?
This post was sponsored by NatureBox. NatureBox is a subscription service that offers the ability to discover and enjoy healthy snacks on a monthly basis, conveniently delivered directly to your doorstep. (With no artificial sweeteners, flavors or colors.) Thanks Naturebox for helping make the APW mission possible!
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