Years ago, after my husband and I had come out of a chaotic season and were finally enjoying a little more calm, I asked my counselor, “Why do I still feel so tired?” Our kids were sleeping through the night. I was able to exercise somewhat regularly. I finally got back into my cooking routine (for the most part, anyway). We were no longer functioning in survival mode.

But I was still completely exhausted.

“It’s like you just ran a marathon. At the end of a marathon, you’re still tired,” my counselor told me.

Duh. I should have known this. But sometimes you need to pay a therapist to remind you of the obvious.

My husband took a day off of work this week. The morning began as normal, but by 8 a.m. it spiraled into kids crying and me taking a timeout behind my locked door. I needed help, space, an extra set of hands, and someone with the dose of patience I lacked.

As I watched him take the kids to the park, make their lunch, and put our two-year-old down for a nap, I felt guilty that I didn’t contribute and guilty that he carried the load of two parents. Rather than being grateful for my husband and his flexible job, I resented needing the help.

In this essay at Coffee + Crumbs, I share my story about grieving the loss of my mom and finding unexpected joy.

The first Thanksgiving my husband and I ever hosted, we crammed 21 people into our one-bedroom apartment. We lacked both a dining room and a dishwasher, but I refused to use disposable dinnerware. We moved furniture, borrowed folding tables, and arranged place settings for a full-fledged, seated meal for friends and family.

"Every night before I get my one hour of sleep, I have the same thought: 'Well, that's a wrap on another day of acting like I know what I'm doing.' I wish I were exaggerating, but I'm not. Most of the time, I feel entirely unqualified to be a parent. I call these times being awake."

– Jim Gaffigan