When I was growing up as the oldest daughter in a single-parent household, I knew that I probably wasn't going to get the help I needed. Whether it was with my homework or around the house, I just powered through and put a lot of pressure on myself to do it well so I wouldn't need help in the future.
That hyper-independence made for getting a lot done in a short amount of time. It also made me reluctant to ever ask for help should I ever truly need it. Throw in a generous helping of German stubbornness, and you've got yourself a recipe for self-sufficiency to a fault.
Like many farmers, I have a really hard time asking for help and an even harder time accepting help when it is offered by someone else. In someone else's time of need, I'm quick to offer aid in any way, shape or form but when that someone is me, I'm left wondering if there's something wrong with me or if I'm failing. I’ve struggled with feelings of inadequacy for much of my life, and knowing that someone else sees me struggling brings a lot of ugly old wounds back to the surface.
Motherhood has changed everything for me, including healing that paralysis around help: asking for and accepting it. Unlike a lot of things that welcoming a child into our home changed overnight, that one has been an ongoing process.
Our son, Titus, came into the world in a big way with an emergency C-section and helicopter ride. Despite his chaotic entrance, he cruised right through his first birthday, hitting all his milestones right on time or even a little bit ahead of schedule.
That trajectory continued through all his checkups at 15 months, 18 months and 24 months – with one notable hangup beginning to emerge along the way. He started babbling right before his first birthday, as many babies do, but remained stuck in the babbling phase even as his peers began to form words, sentences, stories and songs.
When things go awry with your child, it’s easy to take it personally because while our children are their very own people, they’re also an extension of ourselves. Knowing that I myself was a late talker and didn’t speak until well after my second birthday brought some comfort, but by the time he was 2-and-a-half years old, still no words came. Not being able to articulate his thoughts and feelings had to be as frustrating for him as it was for us, if not more.
I was expressing some concern to a friend who happens to be a nurse. She mentioned that he would possibly benefit from early intervention through our county’s Birth to 3 program and asked if I would like her to make a referral. I shook my head and said I would do it myself.
A few days crawled by, then a week, then two weeks and that conversation gnawed at me even more as time went on. I felt sick and couldn’t sleep, and my inner voice was clouded by spiraling thoughts and feelings of failure as I slowly began to accept that our bright, boisterous and loving child had a speech delay.
While I spiraled, I began to wonder if I was failing as a mother and what I was doing wrong. Did his traumatic birth play a role? As with some of the more unfortunate things that have happened over the course of my life, it was easier for me to blame myself than it was to accept that I had no control over it despite my very best efforts.
That same friend sent me a message and asked if I would like her to make a referral to Birth to 3 and schedule a well-child visit with our pediatrician, and I originally told her I would do it myself. A few agonizing minutes later, I bucked years of my own tradition and said that I would gladly accept help if it meant getting my child the resources he needed to thrive.
There was a lot of anxiety leading up to his well-child visit since delayed speech can often be an indicator of autism and other developmental concerns, but those were ruled out by his pediatrician – he is just a late talker, which is a relief. His Birth to 3 evaluation showed that, aside from his speech delay, he is meeting every other milestone right on target if not a little earlier, which is also a relief.
I find myself busting paradigms and generational cycles on a daily basis as a parent, and while my resistance to asking for and accepting help is the biggest battle I’ve faced yet, it might be the most important.
As parents, farmers and human beings, we were never meant to do this thing called life in isolation. No household or farm is an island, after all. We are social creatures wired for community, and we all have special talents, gifts and abilities to share with each other. Needing to ask for help from time to time doesn’t mean you’re weak or a bad parent or a failure – it just means you’re human.
Titus is beginning speech therapy this winter. Hopefully by his third birthday in May, he’ll have made significant strides and can share the amazing things happening in that young brain of his.
I can’t wait to hear the stories he’ll tell when he finds his words, and someday when he’s older I can tell him this story, too.
