An original request from anonymous.

Prompt: "You're allowed to ask for help, you know."

Y'all, I loved writing this one a lot.

"You're allowed to ask for help, you know."

Helga huffed, her back to her husband as she attempted to soothe the squirming infant in her arms, "I shouldn't have to ask for help."

A solid five seconds passed.

"That's...the dumbest thing you've said in a while."

Helga whipped around (well, as much as one could while holding a month old baby), "Shut up! It's not dumb, I'm her mother for god's sake, I should be good at this."

Arnold pushed off from where he had been leaning against the door frame with a sigh, "Honey, not everyone is a natural at handling babies. It takes practice."

"Says the 'natural'," Helga snidely remarked as she gently bounced her baby and moved side to side. The small whining never ceased.

God, she was a terrible mother.

"I'm a terrible mother," Helga admitted woefully.

Her husband's face shifted to one of sympathy as he walked over to her, "Oh, honey. You are not a terrible mother."

She sniffed, "You have to say that. I sleep with you."

Arnold laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "Yes, but I just so happen to still mean it. You're a wonderful mother to Maggie."

"Then she just hates me."

"I don't think babies can hate, dear."

"Then there's something wrong with me."

"Well, yeah. You're just not confident when you hold her," Helga looked up at him, mouth open aghast. Arnold returned it with playful seriousness, "You know, babies can sense that unease. They know when someone's afraid of dropping them."

"I hate you."

"Well, now that's just not true."

"Arnold," Helga whined as she continued her routine across the living room, and tried shifting the infant against her shoulder, "What do I do? What if I'm not cut out for this? What if I screw up?"

"The fact that you're worried about being a terrible mother, tells me that you won't be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, do you ever plan on forgetting her first day of preschool?"

Helga rolled her eyes, "That would be the second child."

"Oh, so we will be having another one?" He Jokingly asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Arnold."

"Honey."

Maggie began to protest louder, "ugh, ok, ok. You try taking her."

Arnold smiled and accepted the baby in his arms, Maggie almost immediately ceased fussing. He looked up, trying to contain his laughter as Helga looked at them with absolute disgust.

"Oh, that is so not fair."

"It's not like I can help it, dear."

"Yeah, well it's not like I carried her around for nine months, endured eight hours of annoying labor with her, pushed her out of my vagina, got eleven stitches-"

"First of all," he gestured with his free hand a single finger, "I Really don't think you should be taking this so personally. And second of all," he raised a second finger, "I thought we agreed you weren't going to talk about the stitches anymore."

"Yeah, well it's the things they don't tell you about until after you're knocked up."

"You know talking about it only upsets you."

"What upsets me, is that I'm a failure at being a mother."

Arnold looked at her with sincerity, "The last thing that Helga G Pataki is, is a failure. That's my wife you're talking about."

Helga felt warmed with love, but folded her arms stubbornly, "Technically I'm Helga Shortman. Maybe the same rules don't apply."

Arnold shrugged, "Yeah, well it was Helga G Pataki that managed to become Helga Shortman. She certainly didn't fail at that. You won't fail at this. You just don't have to do it alone, that's all."

Helga released a sigh, and she felt some tension drop from her shoulders. She offered a small, tired smile, "I love you."

Arnold smiled warmly, "Back at ya, Shortman."

"I'll go make something to eat, while you keep doing what you're doing."

"Sounds good."

Before leaving the room, Helga stopped and looked back. Arnold swayed gently side to side, completely enamored with his daughter, and Helga couldn't help but be overwhelmed with love for them both, and she smiled.

Arnold was right. A failure was the last thing that could be said of Helga G Shortman.