I don't like asking for help. I'm not so foolish as to believe I don't need it, but it stings in my pride.
Yesterday, I interviewed a lovely pair of ladies who offer help to families. They've agreed to help me with running errands, maintaining the house and keeping up with the daily chores. It's going to be expensive but I don't see a choice.
The thing is, I'm humiliated with how my home looks. As in, break down and cry because I'm so embarrassed that it's gotten this bad. I feel like a "before" shot in an intervention show. Dishes don't get done, laundry piles up, I'm stretching out food because groceries aren't getting done, caches of toys scattered all over the house, the garbage and recycling filled to overflowing.
Part of this is because Dave and I have been overwhelmed over the last few months and things have slid. But part of it is because I don't have the energy to keep up with all of it. (I won't speak to Dave's feelings, but I suspect he feels the same.) When one of us drops the ball, the other doesn't have the energy to pick it up.
The stress of not knowing whether or not things will get done has been very difficult for me. I need predictability. Uncertainty throws me for a loop and I don't cope well with it. I start getting obsessed with making contingency plan after contingency plan. My health, both mental and physical, has been breaking down as things stay in limbo, so I needed to act.
But I also need to keep my expectations realistic. This is not going to solve things and make it all magically better. It's going to take care of one specific problem, provided I utilize the help properly.