When you’re married to a military man, you have to learn to deal with a lot of problems on your own. I know I’ve mentioned on several occasions that I’m a big chicken who is afraid of the dark and sleeps with a hammer under her pillow, but aside from that, I’m usually pretty self -sufficient.

Over the three years I’ve been married, I’ve learned to use power tools, hang sheet rock, put down laminate flooring and deal with all of the household mishaps that occur on a day to day basis. After putting down a sub-floor in my garage and listening to my dad tell me how impressed he was, I was starting to get a little cocky, thinking there was no problem I couldn’t take on all by myself.

I was wrong, and this weekend, the powers that be crushed my ego and showed me how that every now and then, you just need a little bit of help.

On Friday night, I got home from work and managed to make it into my house carrying an armful of groceries, a diaper bag containing something that felt like 800 bricks and an 18-month-old baby. (After doing this for the last year and a half, I should have the arms of a professional body builder.)