Crisis mode. Middle-of-the-night stomach bug. As I changed MJ's bedsheets and blanket for the second time in the wee hours of this morning, a calm sort of purposefullness set over me. She's so sad and so bewildered by what's happening to her when she's sick, and unlike other trying moments of our days -- when she wants a third cup of juice and I want five minutes to finish the laundry -- there is no other thought but comfort, no tug-o-war of competing needs. I know what to do. I know what needs to be done. Messes need cleaning, fluids given, hugs administered, cuddles employed. There is a rhythm to the comforting, and I settle into it. I need, in fact, to settle into it; I don't want anyone else to do it for me.

On any other day I might be baffled by how to deal with a particular tantrum, how to potty train a child who refuses to be potty trained, how and what to feed a child who won't eat what I prepare. How to discipline a toddler who won't listen. How to turn my back for five seconds while the markers are in use. I might be troubled by how to get the grocery cart back in the parking lot stalls without leaving the kids in the car by themselves for too long. About getting to the grocery store with two kids in the first place. About whether they play well with others. About whether they'll get into preschool, and whether it's the right preschool. About an excess of toys. About a dearth of outside play.

I don't think "naturally resourceful" are the first words to roll off anyone's tongue when describing me.

But this? Making a boo boo better? Is the oldest and easiest thing in the world. This is when I know I'm a good mother, when I actually know what I'm doing ... even if that five minutes of laundry just turned into three more loads and five more hours. (And trust me, it has...)