The help monster invaded our house about six months ago. At first I didn’t realize it had body snatched my four-year-old child. It started off so innocent, so sweet.

“Mommy, I helpa you.”

“What?”

Craig reached his arm out and pointed to the laundry I was stuffing into the washing machine.

“Oh, sure.” I handed him a few shirts I hadn’t tossed in yet. “Here you go.”

He grabbed them and shoved them up and over until they fell in. Before I could say thanks, he turned and grabbed an armful of towels off the floor.

“Wait …”

Craig stomped his foot. “Yeah, I helpa you.”

“Yes, but we’re not washing those right now.” I pointed to the laundry basket. “We’re washing these.”

“Ohhh.” He released the towels and reached for the clothes. “I do it.”

After the machine was full, I lifted Craig up to pour in the detergent and turn the knob.

The job took three times longer, but my mommy pride puffed out a 100 times bigger.

“You did such a good job. What a great helper you are.” I hugged him until he squirmed. “That was so nice of you. You’re such a GOOD helper.”

I didn’t know it yet, but I just pitched a snowball down a very steep hill.

Later that week

Craig roared and cried. He stomped his foot and said pwease.

“No, this is something mommy does by herself.” I tried to shut the bathroom door. He flailed and then shoved against it.

“Go play. I’ll be right out.”

“No, I helpa youuuuu.”

That was it. I was drawing the line. Hadn’t I already been incredibly inclusive?

I made sure he was included when we brought in groceries, loaded the dishwasher, vacuumed the house, watered the lawn, fed the dogs, set the table, read a book, answered the door, turned on the computer, checked the mail, made the bed, turned on the air, took out the trash and mowed the lawn.

When that wasn’t enough, I created things he could help me with. I’d drop paper on the floor so he could pick it up, I’d grab a rag and tell him to wipe off the fridge, or, when feeling devilish, I’d tell him
his dad needed help fixing things.

Once I even gave him a pad of sticky notes and told him I needed help pasting them to the wall. (Hey, it worked. … for about five minutes.)

I even let him hold my hand to help walk me down the hall.

But this … no way.

“Mommy is a big girl. She can go potty by herself. You wait out there.”

“Noooo.”

I maneuvered the door shut, only to find out the lock didn’t work. “Great.” Luckily the business seat was close enough I could hang on to the doorknob. “I’ll be right out.”

Craig responded in the way I imagined only a hellcat would after he tugged furiously to no avail. He screamed like a banshee and rolled around kicking on the floor. Holy bajeezus, was that my son out there? I opened the door.

It took him a few seconds to realize I was staring at him from my perched position. I think he was as shocked to see me, pants around my ankles, as I was to see him pounding the carpet.

It took but a moment for him to collect himself and victoriously enter the bathroom. He stood facing me with his cheeks flushed.

“Okay, fine, you can be in here.”

Craig sniffed a few times and then reached over, grabbed some toilet paper and handed it to me.

“See mommy, I helpa you.”

Sigh. I accepted his offering.

Help indeed.

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