Wood Sprite (my new online nickname for my five-year-old daughter) had already had a rough day. She woke up with a crusty nose, a scratchy throat, and a voice reminiscent of a veteran lounge singer. The cough and oozy ears came later. She had a trip she’d been anticipating for months—we’d all been anticipating it; it was to be our first road trip as a family—cancelled on account of her illness, too, which made her all the crankier.

That evening, when she wanted to sleep in my room, I didn’t even hesitate. I set her up with propped pillows and the humidifier. I put the small space heater on and it hummed quietly, which she liked, too. I coated her chest and back with Vicks (which she didn’t like), treated her nose with some saline solution (which she fought like hell), and told her a short story. She was exhausted and ready to sleep, and despite the intermittent coughing, was out in a few minutes.

I went back to work in the living room, keeping one ear turned toward the bedroom, working on the floor. As I was writing about hot flash remedies, I suddenly noticed Wood Sprite at my elbow, looking sleepy and uncomfortable. “I pee-peed,” she informed me. She hadn’t wet the bed, mind you, in months; I’m sure it was due to her being sick and tired.

I told her to go potty and get undressed while I changed the bed. I put down some even more comfortable thick sheets and the fuzzy blankets she liked to burrow in as I threw the others in the wash. “I’m sorry for peeing in your bed, Mama,” she murmured behind me.

I smiled at her. “I needed to wash the sheets anyway! Let’s get dressed.” I dressed her in her brand new (well, they are secondhand, but they look brand new) pajamas from her cousin. They were a bit big on her, but the pants were slinky and silk-like, and she oohed over them. “They’re like your pajama pants, Mama!” Indeed they were!

She snuggled back into bed as if it hadn’t happened (after another round of steaming in the bathroom, with hot water running in the shower) and was out in a few moments. While I washed the blankets, I realized that I’d done just what my mother had always done for me. I didn’t just treat her symptoms and her needs—I comforted her. I made her feel loved and cared for, something my mother never failed to do while we were sick. Some of my favorite childhood memories are of me being sick—not because I was sick, but because I was so comforted and loved that it would be hard not to appreciate those times.

I found myself being that person and it made me feel pretty darn good. I can only hope that I can continue being that person as she grows, continually being there for her through sickness and health, something that a mother knows much better than a spouse.