“Mom, why are you making your hair handsome?” my three-year-old asks as he walks into the room to the sight of me with a curling wand held up to my head. He leaves before I can answer. 

I chuckle to myself as I think about his question. Making something handsome is code for “getting ready.” He uses this word when I actually take the time to comb his hair and throw a little product in it. The other 90% of the time it goes unseen, smashed underneath a ball cap. 

On the rare occasion that I attempt to “ready him,” my son usually tells me he doesn’t want to be handsome. The scenario always plays out the same way with him trying to thwart my efforts to transfer the sticky pomade from my fingers to his head while I remind him he’s handsome no matter what—even if his hair isn’t combed or styled.

I set the wand down on the dresser and run my fingers through the waves to loosen them a bit. Picking up the pink aerosol can, I spray a cloud of finishing mist before I unclip the next layer of hair and begin the process all over again.

It’s Wednesday, which means my husband is home, which means I have a long list of things to accomplish while I’m able to do so sans kids. Today it’s two appointments and a Target run. I laugh to myself again, this time thinking about how I’m curling my hair for an outing that includes a trip to the dentist and a physical.

It wasn’t that long ago that I had actual places to go, and I don’t just mean pre-pandemic. Rewind less than four years, and “making myself handsome” was an everyday occurrence that constituted jewelry, full-face make-up, blouses, and either wedges or heels. My hair was always straightened or curled (as opposed to slept-on or air-dried), casual dresses were in regular rotation, and my lip gloss was never far from reach. This was when I left the house for work each day, put together and hot coffee in hand. This was also when we had no kids, and when date nights were ample, as was the energy to primp for them.

These days, a lot of my somewheres involve grocery-getting and schlepping kids around in strollers, and the only gowns I’m donning are ones meant for the doctor’s office, not fancy New Year’s Eve parties. Although I’ve grown accustomed to my messy bun and momiform, I do still like to put forth a little extra effort on the days I’m going to be outside the four walls of my home and perimeter of my yard. It makes me feel… like an adult? An actual woman?

It all starts to feel like an exercise in vanity, however, when I realize I’m not even going to  carry these curls over into tomorrow. I’ll wash all of my efforts away in the shower tonight because, COVID or not, I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Taking the time to actually do my hair usually means dry shampoo the next day for the sake of preservation. But not when said hair has visited dentist’s chairs and exam beds.

With my curls complete, I slip on some denim and a semi-new Madewell top and make my way downstairs where my husband and two boys are engaged in what I can only describe as half pillow fight, half wrestling match. I walk by my oldest, the same toddler who questioned my hair decisions just 30 minutes prior. 

“Wow, Mom. You look perfect!” he says quickly before body-slamming both himself and a pillow onto his dad’s back.

I smile, amused by the irony of him uttering such a sweet comment while at the same time carrying out a violent assault against his father.

I stand in front of the water dispenser and top off my Yeti as my eyes scan for keys, aware of how buoyed I feel by my son’s comment. I of course know I don’t look perfect, but I do feel a little more myself, and that’s something. I also know that beauty is so much more than curling my hair or putting on mascara, but today I did both, and it feels good. 

Even if I don’t have anywhere to go, I still have someone to be. And any effort that makes that someone feel like the best version of herself is always worth it, in my opinion.

This is true even when the curls won’t make it to tomorrow.

It’s 6:25am, and I’m already surfing the Target Circle app. The last thing I want to do is spend $60 on a light I already have my doubts about, but alas, here we are. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d probably spend a lot more to fix the issue at hand. 

The guilty party sits in the living room: the toddler whose tiptoes and whispers had me up three times through the night and then up for good around 5:15am. For the record, I don’t always despise the five o’clock hour. I do, however, mind it when I’m forced awake by a three-year-old who isn’t great about staying in his bed and feels the need to climb into mine during the wee hours of the morning and pontificate about trash trucks and Paw Patrol. 

The red circle spins momentarily until my phone assures me my order has been placed and will be ready for pick-up in two hours. If only I could outsource all of my parenting challenges to Target.

The water is already sitting in the kettle on the stove, and I turn the knob to high, hastening it to heat to boiling as my own aggravation cools to a simmer. 

Up until a couple of weeks ago, our toddler getting out of bed had been an on-and-off thing; it would happen every once and while, just here and there. Lately, however, it’s the same story every single night. 

It goes like this:

My eyes snap open shortly after 12:00am, that supernatural middle-of-the-night maternal instinct jolting me awake. Seconds later, my son’s footsteps make their way down the hall, sometimes pounding at a fast pace, other times slow and stealthy. My Yeti is waiting for him on the nightstand because he always wants water, and it has to be cold. Nevermind the full Hydro Flask I placed next to his bed just hours before. I break out of my warm cocoon as he takes icy gulps, the chill of the air adding to my irritation. 

“Okay, let’s go back to your room, buddy,” I say, gently steering his shoulders in the other direction. 

“I want you to snuggle me,” he whispers as I kneel next to his bed. It will take a mere 90 seconds for him to fall asleep, at which point I will creep back into my own room and proceed to toss and turn for anywhere from 15-45 minutes before joining him in Dreamland. 

Then the whole thing will happen again one to two hours later (and sometimes once more after that).

My husband and I have tried a whole host of things to correct this. There have been sticker charts and lost privileges and long conversations about fear and being brave. One morning, after the single successful night we had in weeks, my son asks for a sticker and reminds me he also stayed in his bed on Christmas Eve when Santa came, so he should actually get two. I explain that stickers cannot be rendered retroactively, and he relapses anyway.

The perpetrator’s room is already well-equipped with both a night light and a sound machine, but now I’m buying a night light/sound machine combo because it possesses the magical ability to turn a certain color at a predetermined time, signaling to my sleep-challenged son whether or not it is okay for him to get out of bed. I plan to keep it simple and go with red and green for stop and go.

My hopes are not high, but my desperation is.

There is great excitement when we bring home the light, but I’m still not convinced his enthusiasm will translate into success. We talk about our plan while I read through the instructions and download the app. He loves that it can change color; I love that it has the potential to change bad habits.

Because we’re on the subject, I ask him a question I’ve asked several times before. This time his answer is especially endearing.

“Honey, why aren’t you staying in your own bed? Why do you come into Mommy and Daddy’s room when you wake up at night?”

“I just so much need you,” he says, looking up at me with brown eyes that mirror my own. He throws himself in my direction and swings his arms up around my neck. If only I could hug the sleep I haven’t been getting lately like that. 

All joking aside, my heart melts as his body momentarily rests on mine. 

I just so much need you. 

It’s a little ironic that the things he thinks he needs me for he really doesn’t, and vice versa. He doesn’t actually need me to help him fall back asleep when he wakes up in the middle of night, but he believes that to be true. He does, however, still need my help with the myriad of things he thinks he can do on his own and now wants to do independently.

I can’t help but see the parallels to my own behavior.

If I examine the areas of my life where progress has stalled, or if I look at the things I am most hesitant about (or dare I say scared of), it’s clear that it all stems from my waiting for the assistance of someone or something, when really all that’s required is for me to show up and do the work. From the creative pursuits and unspoken, hidden dreams to the ugly bathroom wall that needs repainting and my on-again-off-again relationship with my running routine, I’m waiting for my own proverbial sleep aid. I need something else, I tell myself—more time, more energy, someone to motivate and lead the way. Deep down I know it isn’t true. I listen to the lie anyway. 

In contrast, there are plenty of areas in which I do need help, but like my three-year-old attempting to tie his own shoes, I’m stubborn and I don’t like to call upon others. His actions, however, are developmentally appropriate. Mine are demonstrably amiss. Like my scrunchy-faced toddler tugging on laces, I make futile attempts at things that would be much easier if only I would ask for help. I’m not meant to carry the load that I do all by myself 100 percent of the time. I know this. I also know this is not something I like to admit.

I won’t speak for everyone, but I’m certain there are many of us who have been marching through motherhood pretending (or, perhaps, actually believing) that we can have it all, do it all, and be it all, all on our own. We can cook the meals, clean the floors, manage the routines, calm the tantrums, rock the baby, run the carpool, tend to our marriage, exercise, take care of our skin, and somehow still remain sane.

I can’t even call this a spoiler alert because it’s something we all already know: we cannot.

I know this tale is as old as time, but I also think it bears repeating: moms are not meant to be martyrs. We are not resigned to silent suffering, sulking through our daily responsibilities secretly hoping someone will notice and say something so that we can verbally deny the too-heavy load we bear and casually shrug off their comment anyway.

Sometimes we need help tying our shoes so we can get out the door a little quicker and on our way to the better part of the day.

My husband, who works as a therapist, often reminds me that nothing changes if nothing changes. I can’t wish, hope, or simply will things to be different. I have to make a plan and do the work. In this case, I have to start asking for help.

Sometimes that help looks like a magic light atop my son’s dresser. More often than not, however, it looks like communicating more openly with my husband about my needs, asking someone to watch the kids for a few hours even though I’m worried it will greatly inconvenience them and they’ll secretly resent me for months to come (they won’t), and saying yes instead of no when someone offers to help even though it makes me feel weak and chafes my ego.

No one wins when we try to white-knuckle our way through life. In fact, the biggest losers are ourselves. 

//

After our second night with the magic light, I wake up at 5:00am and can hardly believe I’m opening my eyes for the first time since falling asleep seven hours prior. I freeze when I hear whispers of, “Mom, Moooommm.” I hold my breath as I double-check to see what time I’ve programmed the miracle machine to change color. 6:00am. He has one more hour. 

To my great surprise the whispers stop and I don’t see my son until the glow of red is replaced by green, signaling to him that it’s okay to get out of bed. At this point, he comes bounding out of his room announcing to the whole house what he’s just accomplished.

“I’m so proud of you, Honey!” I say, scooping him up for a giant kiss. “See, you can do it!”

//

One of the most important lessons my three-year-old can learn right now is that he can do hard things. With some determination and perseverance his efforts will pay off, whether that be in regard to dressing himself, improving his golf swing (this kid loves golf!), or, of course, staying in his own bed. He needs to know he can do these things on his own so he can cultivate a healthy sense of both independence and resilience.

There’s a lesson in all of this for me too, although it’s essentially the inverse of his. One of the most important things I need to be reminded of during this season of long days with tiny humans is that I can’t do all the things all the time all by myself. Sometimes you just have to outsource—to grandma, to a friend, or to the trusty old Target Circle app.