Admitting I Need Help

It’s with sincere humility that I admit to you that I need help—professional help. This will come as no big shock to my friends and family. In fact my children think I’m stark raving mad about 90% of the time—that is, oddly, the equivalent amount of time I spend yelling at them to pick up their stinking messes. I think the yelling is completely warranted and totally called for, but apparently they disagree.


I’ve spent my entire weekend preparing for my first session and I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll ever be ready. I’ve cleaned out corners of my house where messes were stashed temporarily, but since they were never moved, they took root like a big rubber tree threatening to overtake the entire family room. I had gotten so used to them being there that I had deluded myself into thinking that they belonged, kind of like the second roommate we inadvertently took in when I was in college. She asked to “crash” for a couple of nights and before we knew it, the couch was being dubbed “her bedroom.” My messes did the exact same thing. When I asked my kids to put things away that had taken root, they had no idea where it really belonged and even questioned if they actually belonged to us. This led to me cleaning out closets and cupboards in order to find space for the items that we never had space for in the first place. Naturally, while I was on the mission to pull my house back together, my kids were doing what they do best—leaving socks on stairs and tucked in couches, stuffing empty juice boxes into the cat tower, and stacking dirty dishes on the counter as if the dishwasher was hit by an invisibility ray. It was maddening! I don’t need professional help—I need Mary Poppins! That chick forced the kids to take cough syrup so that they’d sleep and she put them to work sweeping up soot.

Still, it’s all scheduled and I’m going to go through with it even though I’m having second thoughts. Millions of women get through days just like mine without going to a professional. I should just “suck it up.” But, even though I’m embarrassed and ashamed, I’m secretly looking forward to it. I fantasize about how I’ll feel when I walk in the door tomorrow. Will the sent of lemon and pine greet me? Will I be able to see my smiling face in the shine of the hard wood? Will I go into my boys bathroom and be able to actually see myself in the mirror—without my image marred by thousands of toothpaste spots? I’m positively giddy just thinking about it. It may have taken me a while to admit that I need a maid service, but I’m admitting it out loud—to the whole world. They’ll be here tomorrow with their vacuums and their dust cloths and their shower cleaner and my world will change. Okay, probably not, but I’m hoping it will be a little cleaner—if only for a day.