Loyal fans of this blog may have noticed that I haven’t been writing as frequently lately. The simple explanation is: I’ve been too busy. Too busy to write, too busy to ponder and mull, too busy to reflect on the year gone by, too busy to make any New Year’s Resolutions.
I know, I know, we’re all busy. And yes, I’ve read all the pop advice about “putting yourself first” and “important vs. urgent,” etc. But what I really want to share with you today is a story about the value of accepting help.
Many of us are super-producers. We cover a lot of ground, accomplish many things, juggle dozens of projects and priorities – we get a lot done. In my family, we venerate competence. We strive to be capable, intelligent, efficient, and productive.
Does this sound familiar: “It’s faster to just do it myself”? (Related to: “I’d rather do it right than have to do it over.” Distant cousin to: “I didn’t have time to write you a short letter.”)
My husband’s version is: “What’s the big deal? You get in it, you drive.” Allow me to explain….
A few years ago, my middle daughter was moving from college in Seattle to grad school in Boston. She flew to Boston with two suitcases and her cat; everything else was stored in our basement and garage in Northern Virginia. So, I offered to pack up all her belongings (furniture, clothes, books, sheets, towels, you name it) into a U-Haul and drive them to Boston. I figured it would be a great way to get all her stuff there and spend a nice mother-daughter weekend.
Which is why – when my husband offered to drive with me – I said, no, no, I’ll do it myself.
Are you sure? It’s going to be a big truck. Have you ever driven a big U-haul truck before?
Enter famous last words: “What’s the big deal? It’s a truck. You get in it. You drive.”
We went to the U-Haul center early that morning, and they pointed to the truck we’d reserved in the back of the lot. I almost cried. It was huge. (I blame my husband.) I could barely reach the step to climb in. But I put on a brave face and drove back to our house to load the truck. First sign of trouble: I agreed to let my husband back it into the driveway for loading.
Once the truck was loaded, I got on the road. It was a long trip. DC to Boston is 450 miles, and in a large truck, you can’t really go above 55. At least, I can’t. Add on 30 minutes to figure out how to fill the gas tank (don’t ask), and I arrived around 6 pm. Also known as rush hour.
My daughter had moved to a little apartment in a row house on a very cute and horrifyingly narrow road in the Boston neighborhood of Allston. By the time I got there, both sides of the street were lined with parked cars. I very carefully navigated my way down the center of the street (praying that no one would come the other way), but there were no parking spaces anywhere – not for a VW bug, and certainly not for a large U-haul truck.
I “parked” at the end of the block, with the end of the truck sticking out into the street, and ran up to her apartment.
Let’s just go get some dinner, my daughter suggested. Then you can go to your hotel, and we can unpack the truck tomorrow. Everyone will go to work in the morning, and there will be plenty of space on the road to park.
Sounds good. We hopped (OK, climbed) back into the U-haul and drove a few blocks to a local restaurant. There was a parking lot across the street, big and empty, so we parked there and went in for dinner. We came out around 9:30… no truck. It was quite literally gone. That’s when my daughter noticed the sign in the parking lot: “For Whole Foods customers only. Violators will be towed.”
I am rarely speechless, but I swear I could not talk. “It’s ok, Mom, it’s OK. There’s the number on the sign, we’ll just call and see what we need to do.” (Note: my daughter is also a champion of competence.)
We called; yes they had the truck, here’s the address to come bail it out. $250. Cash only.
We hailed a taxi and drove to the nasty side of town. Barbed wire, chain link fence, pit bull behind the steel door of the little guard shack. We handed over the $250, then checked the back of the truck – and were relieved that it was still full.
So, I drove my daughter back to her apartment, and set out for my hotel. Now, my husband had researched this carefully (another proud member of Team Competence), and he had found a hotel with an outdoor parking lot, rather than a garage, to be sure I could actually park the truck there that night. As you probably know, most downtown hotels have parking garages, so of course I had a bit of a drive to get to my hotel. You might also know that Boston is devilishly tricky to navigate – lots of traffic circles, confusing road patterns, terrible (or no) signs. It took me a long time to get to that hotel, with a lot of yelling at Siri along the way.
I pulled into the parking lot after midnight, and there were no spaces. I mean – none. It was completely full. The only spot was the handicapped space right near the door. I took it and went inside to the clerk at the desk.
“Look. I’ve had a really bad day. You don’t even want to know. And I booked a room here specifically because you have a lot where I can park my truck. But there are no spaces. So I parked in the handicapped space.”
I’m pretty sure he took one look at me and decided the only response was pity. “That’s OK, ma’m. You can park there tonight. The only person who reports people for parking there is me, so you’ll be fine.”
At about 6 am I woke up and wondered: “When does he get off work? 6 am? 7 am? 5 am?!” I threw on my clothes and ran downstairs. Luckily, he was still there, my truck was still there, everything was fine. I was up anyway, so I ate a quick breakfast at the buffet, and drove back to my daughter’s apartment.
We unpacked the entire truck, hauling dressers and bookshelves and boxes up two flights of stairs, and by noon we were done. Exhausted, but done. All I wanted to do was get rid of that cursed truck. We Google-mapped the drop off location and set off. We arrived at a gas station, which was a bit odd, but hey, it’s Boston, maybe this is the closest U-Haul drop off.
“Where did you say you were going? Oh, no, this is First Street, Allston. You want First Street, South Boston. But, you know, there’s a huge U-haul center just a few blocks away. Go down to the third light, turn left, then…”
We found the U-Haul center – nope, they only dispatch trucks, no drop-offs. Back to the maps on our phone, another long drive to another industrial part of town. Finally, we arrived at the drop off. I handed (threw?) the keys to the attendant, signed the form (no, I didn’t read it, just signed it), and breathed a sigh of relief.
Hey mom, said my daughter. How are we getting home?
My husband loves to tell this story, (not in as much detail, I admit, but) he particularly loves the part where I said “what’s the big deal? You get in it, you drive.” For my part, I admit — I should have accepted his offer of help.
But have I truly learned my lesson? I’m trying! Please repeat after me: Help is good. I don’t need to do everything myself. It’s OK to ask for help.
That’s my New Year’s Resolution. Better late than never.