My dad bought four bags of Poppables in the wrong flavor. He was running some errands for my mom, and, in his defense, the bags of “Sea Salt & Vinegar” Poppables are a very similar color to the bags of the preferred “Sea Salt” variety. Apparently there was a sale going on if you bought four bags. That’s how my parents ended up adding four bags of Poppables, in a flavor no one likes, to their large stash of crunchy snacks.

I know about this because my family just spent almost two weeks living with my parents.

It started on a Wednesday night with a toilet that wouldn’t flush. I’m an independent woman in plenty of ways, so I had no problem letting my husband tackle this one. His efforts with the plunger didn’t make much difference. The toilet wouldn’t flush, and the shower was slow to drain.

Thankfully, my parents were able and willing to house us while we got our plumbing situation sorted out. Walter slept in the bedroom that used to be my brother’s while Brad and I shared my old room with Phoebe. We had to tiptoe past her crib when we went to bed at night. It was a little crowded, and a little inconvenient to be out of routine.

But it was actually a good two weeks. Not only did we have access to drains that worked properly, we had access to my mom’s cooking. We had two extra sets of hands readily available to help us out with the kids. Mornings were so much easier when I didn’t have to get myself and two kids up, dressed, fed, and out the door by 8:00 am all on my own. We shared the daily tasks of cleaning up after meals, picking up toys, caring for the kids, running errands, and folding laundry.

I think this is what “it takes a village” really means. Generations ago, it was normal for extended families to live together. Families and close friends would raise their children and manage the everyday tasks of life together in community. We weren’t meant to do all the things we do—raising our children, gathering groceries, preparing meals, vacuuming, laundry, doing dishes, working outside the home, and maybe trying to find little slices of time for ourselves—on our own.

My mom returned the wrong Poppables to the store and exchanged them for the correct flavor. The sewer technicians were able to clear some pesky tree roots out of our pipe without having to excavate our yard. We’re back home, and it’s nice to have our own space back.

But those two weeks living with my parents were a glimpse of a different way of life—one where we depend on each other rather than trying to be as independent and self-sufficient as possible. That was nice, too. (It was honestly like a little “staycation” from the overwhelm of “momming.”)

Needing the help and support of friends or family doesn’t mean we’re failing. I’m starting to believe that’s how we as a society, and especially as women and mothers, are supposed to live.

Header photo: Wilted roses in snow, shot on film (Kodak Porta 400) with my Nikon F100