I was folding laundry last week when my mom called. She wanted to know if I needed her recipe for chicken soup because Milo had a cold. I told her we were fine, that I’d already made some bone broth with herbs from the garden.
There was this pause. This heavy, familiar pause that made my chest tight. “Oh,” she said. “Well, if you need anything…” And then she hung up faster than usual.
That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling. When was the last time I’d actually asked her for help? Not polite offers I’d decline or quick babysitting requests. Real help. The kind where you call your mom crying because you don’t know what you’re doing and you need her to tell you it’s going to be okay.
I think I know the exact moment it stopped for her. Ellie was maybe six months old, and my mom had come to stay for a week. She kept trying to show me how she’d done things, how to swaddle tighter, how to get her on a schedule.
And I kept saying, “Thanks, but we’re doing it differently.” By day three, she stopped offering. She just sat on the couch, holding Ellie when I’d let her, watching me navigate my own way through the chaos of new motherhood.
The invisible shift from needing to visiting
You know what’s strange? We spend our entire childhoods desperately trying to prove we don’t need our parents, and then we succeed. And suddenly, they’re just… visitors in our lives. They come for birthdays and holidays, they offer advice we rarely take, and they watch us make choices they don’t always understand.
My father still asks if I need money sometimes. He’ll slip it into conversation casually, like he’s asking about the weather. “Everything good? Bills okay?” I always say yes, even when things are tight.
Because somewhere along the way, I decided that needing his money would mean I’d failed at being an adult. But I wonder if every “yes, we’re fine” chips away at something in him. That part that used to be the provider, the solver of problems, the one who made everything okay.
The hardest part is watching them want to help and not knowing how to let them. My mom will come over and immediately start cleaning something, reorganizing the kids’ toys, starting dinner. It’s her way of feeling useful, of maintaining some thread of being needed. And sometimes I have to bite my tongue to not say, “Mom, please just sit down and play with the kids.”
When your parenting makes them question theirs
Every choice I make as a parent seems to hold up a mirror to how they raised me. When I babywear Milo everywhere, is my mom remembering the stroller she pushed me in? When I skip the crying it out and bring him to our bed, is she thinking about all those nights she sat outside my door, following the advice of whatever expert was popular in the ’80s?
She’ll say things like, “You turned out fine, didn’t you?” And there’s this defensiveness underneath it. This need to justify that they did their best with what they knew. Which they did. Of course they did. But it doesn’t make the gap between us any smaller.
Matt’s parents are the same way. His mom brought over a huge container of conventional cleaning supplies last month, “just in case.” When I explained we use vinegar and baking soda for most things, she looked at me like I’d told her we clean with prayer and good intentions.
“But does it actually kill germs?” she asked, and I could see her mentally cataloging this as another way her son married a woman who makes everything unnecessarily complicated.
The art of pretending you have it all figured out
Here’s what nobody tells you about becoming a parent: you’ll spend half your energy pretending you know what you’re doing, especially in front of your own parents. Because asking them for advice feels like admitting you can’t handle it. And haven’t we spent our whole adult lives proving we can?
But what if that’s exactly what they’re waiting for? What if they’re sitting by their phones, hoping we’ll call with something more than schedule updates and photo shares?
I tested this theory last month. Called my dad about a leaky pipe instead of immediately calling a plumber or asking Matt to handle it. You should have heard the joy in his voice.
He drove over within an hour, tools in hand, and spent the whole afternoon not just fixing the pipe but teaching Ellie about water pressure and showing her his different wrenches. He stayed for dinner. He seemed lighter somehow, useful in a way that went beyond being “Grandpa.”
Finding new ways to need them
So maybe the question isn’t about needing them the way we used to. Maybe it’s about finding new ways to include them, to value what they offer, even when it looks different from what we’d choose ourselves.
I’ve started asking my mom for stories. Not advice, just stories. “What did you do when I wouldn’t sleep?” “How did you handle it when I threw tantrums in stores?” And suddenly, she’s not someone whose outdated advice I’m deflecting. She’s someone who survived exactly what I’m going through. She’s proof that we’ll make it through.
Last week, I asked her to teach Ellie how to braid bread the way she used to make it every Sunday. They spent three hours in my kitchen, flour everywhere, Ellie standing on a chair with her arms elbow-deep in dough while my mom guided her hands.
I could have taught her myself. I make bread twice a week. But watching my mom’s face as she passed down this one small thing, this one piece of herself that was still needed, still valuable… I realized how selfish I’d been with my independence.
The window is smaller than we think
My parents are in their sixties now. They’re healthy, active, still themselves.
But I see the subtle changes. The way my dad takes a little longer to get up from playing on the floor with Milo. The way my mom’s hands shake slightly when she’s tired.
How many more years do we have where they can actively help, where they can drive over to fix things, where they can babysit without it being a concern? How many opportunities am I missing to make them feel valued, needed, essential, because I’m so focused on proving I’ve got everything under control?
Closing thoughts
Tonight, I’m going to call my mom. Not to share news or send pictures or coordinate a visit. I’m going to ask her for that chicken soup recipe. The one I already have written down somewhere, the one I could easily find online.
Because sometimes being needed isn’t about solving real problems. Sometimes it’s about remembering that the people who taught us to tie our shoes and ride bikes and be brave in the dark still have something to offer.
And maybe, just maybe, the next time she pauses on the phone, waiting to hear if I need anything, I’ll say yes. Even if I don’t. Especially if I don’t. Because maintaining our independence might be costing our parents something we can’t get back: the last years they have to feel truly necessary in our lives.
