She needs me, but not as much as I need her.

“Mommy, I thought we weren’t supposed to touch baby sister or we’ll get sick!” My preschooler was right. I’d warned her not to give her little sister the customary bedtime kisses and hugs, as she’d just started throwing up an hour earlier. She didn’t understand why I would be cuddling my glassy-eyed, vomiting toddler. But I explained. “Sweetie, this is what mommies do. We take care of our babies. Even if it means we get sick, too. Even when they’re smelly, or yucky, we just pick them up and give them love.”

She gave me a knowing look, and nodded her head. “It’s just what mommies do.”

And I can’t help but feel blessed that this is what I do best as a mother. Tend to a sick child. It’s as if all other acts of motherhood are distilled down to this one act. I somehow find the strength to stay up all night, wiping mouths, noses, bottoms, changing sheets, washing towels, putting Curious George on repeat. I overcome my aversion to sour smells, kiss foreheads glazed with sweat and who knows what else. It’s just what I do. My child needs me, and there is no second guessing.

Even now, as an adult, I need my mother. When I had mastitis and the stomach flu at the same time last year, I begged for her. And of course, she took care of me in the way only she could. After all, it’s just what mommies do. When others are losing children, and losing mothers, I find comfort and security in this one simple, yet exhausting task. My sick daughter may need me, but probably not as much as I need her.