I need it, but I hate needing it. In this day and age, why should anyone lend a hand when you're the crazy fool who decided to have all those kids? I made my bed.
There are lots of nice people who help us many times, many ways. Some people even get unhappy if I don't pester them enough (!). But in the back of my mind, I feel a lot of pressure to represent and not need the help. I want people to have no reason to doubt it when we say that children are a blessing and that God won't give you more than you can handle. I want people to look at us and think, that doesn't look so bad! I don't want to be the frazzled, exhausted, weepy mom in a dirty sweatshirt with a cobwebby house full of scraggly kids and overdue library books; living proof of the necessity of limiting family size. I don't want to give people a reason to think that our four kids under five are why I'm neurotic. I was neurotic to begin with, but they don't know that.
So here's my horrible secret: I can't do this. I'm too selfish and too lazy and too plain bad at all of it. I'm too scared to go through labor again. There's no way I'm hobbling through another third trimester with a painfully hyperextended pelvis. I'm done with 45-minute nursing sessions three times a night. I'm no good with kids, my own included. I can't keep up this act. This is more than I can handle. I am maudlin, dirtily shirted, and librarily negligent.
Don't tell, though, ok? I'm sure no one would believe it anyway.