It Really Does Take A Village - & Sometimes a Neighbor with Snacks

There’s a special kind of delusion that grips parents right around the time their kids hit elementary school. It’s this weird, caffeinated confidence that says, “Hey, you can totally crush a full-time job, organize a family calendar that rivals NASA’s launch schedule, and show up to every single school event without losing your mind or your car keys.” I know because I caught that bug. Hard.

Both my husband and I were working full-time, and I was determined to be the mom who did it all. We’re talking bacon-bringing, bacon-frying, and still showing up at every after-school gig—sometimes with actual bacon, if it was a potluck.

This probably had something to do with my own childhood. Both my parents worked, too, but “extracurricular activities” was a phrase we mostly heard on TV. I was a latchkey kid, and if I wanted to be in a play or—God forbid—join a club, it wasn’t happening. There was simply no one to drive me around or to sit in the audience. I’d look out from the stage and spot the other kids’ parents beaming, while I just hoped someone would remember to pick me up before the janitor locked the doors.

So, naturally, when I became a mom, I overcompensated like it was my job. “Sure, you want to join choir? Soccer? Interpretive dance club that meets at 7 am on Saturdays? We’ll make it work!” I said, as if I had a fleet of nannies and a private jet.

Now, my mom lived with us, which you’d think would be a lifesaver. Surprise! She couldn’t drive, and walking long distances was out, so her superpower was being available—if the kids were already home. Otherwise, it was all on me and my husband.

It all came to a head when my daughter decided to join the after-school choir in third grade. “No problem,” I said, lying to myself and everyone else. I had a great boss who let me tweak my work hours, so I’d rush in early and leave early, praying the traffic gods were in a good mood. Most days, I’d screech into the school parking lot looking (and feeling) like a troll doll who’d lost a fight with a leaf blower. One time, I showed up battling what would soon be a sinus infection of biblical proportions. I’m sure the other parents thought I was auditioning for a NyQuil commercial.

Enter my neighbor—let’s call her Saint of the Suburbs. She had a daughter in choir, too, and must have sensed my “I’m totally fine, everything’s great!” energy was a thin veneer over full meltdown mode. She just looked at me and said, “Girl, I’ve got to pick up my daughter every week anyway. I can take your daughter home for you.”

Now, if you’ve ever been a mom on the brink, you know the reflex: “Oh, no, I’m fine, really! I got this!” Meanwhile, your brain is doing cartwheels and your sinuses are plotting rebellion. But she was persistent. “Seriously, we live on the same block. It’s no trouble.” It was the “let me help you” I didn’t know I desperately needed.

Eventually, I caved and let her pick up my daughter from choir. Game. Changer. Suddenly, I wasn’t sprinting out of work mid-project or risking a public meltdown in the pickup line. It was glorious.

And then—because the universe loves a plot twist—my mom got sick and was hospitalized. My neighbor didn’t just keep picking up my daughter; she took her home, fed her snacks, gave her dinner, and watched her until my husband finished the Great After-School Program Commute with our son. This went on for weeks. She never made me feel like I owed her, never hinted at a favor exchange. It was just straight-up, no-strings-attached kindness from one mom to another.

After that, I finally started accepting help from other parents without the obligatory “Are you sure? I can totally do it!” act. I even learned to pay it forward: picking up other kids, bringing them home, and sometimes tossing in a grocery run for good measure. My kids are older now, but I still lean on my parent posse—and they lean on me. Why did I resist it for so long? Who knows. Pride, stubbornness, a misguided belief that I was auditioning for Supermom: The Musical.

Now, when new parents move into the neighborhood and sheepishly ask for advice, I’m the first one to say: TAKE THE HELP. Don’t overthink it. Don’t keep score. Just accept the kindness, and let yourself be part of a village. Because that cliche? It’s not just a line—it’s the truth.

So here's the takeaway - You don’t have to do it all alone. Admitting you need help doesn’t make you weaker; it makes you smarter (and much less likely to show up at school looking like a troll doll who lost her keys). So, ditch the cape, toss the Supermom myth in the trash, and open yourself up to the community that wants to prop you up. Create your village, lean into it, and let yourself feel grateful for every single person in it.

Trust me, it really does take a village. And sometimes, all you need is a neighbor with a car and a pantry full of Goldfish.