A few years ago I was feeling a case of the blahs; blahs with motherhood, with speaking, with cleaning boys' potty training toilets, with not having Publisher's Clearing House knock at my door (does it matter that I don't send in entries?).

I wailed to my husband — I use the word wail — "What does it matter? Nothing I do matters, not with cleaning, not with helping others, not with the kids."

I recounted my trials of working with the children to get ready for school by themselves; it had been four torturous months without having attained self-sufficiency. I shared my frustration with the mud on the floor, the broken computer/toys/VCR, my missing scissors/wrapping paper/shoelaces from every laced shoe, buttons from every school shirt (used, without my consent, for a Scout's button collection), and on and on.

Throughout this woe-was-me, my husband was amazing. He listened, nodded and used my own communication techniques on me. He validated — "I'm so sorry, honey"; he asked questions: "What do you think would help?" and he got closure — "I think you are doing an incredible job and you will see the fruits when you least expect it," or something equally self-developmental.

Though what he said helped, I wasn't ready to let go of my pity party. When you have the blahs, you are not rational, you are not accountable, you are just in a funk and in need of whining and chocolate. This objectivity comes with the knowledge that a teaching moment is right around the corner to catapult one out of the blah-zone. And sure enough it was.

Within a short period of time I learned the following: a dear friend's husband had just lost his job and the best possibilities were vague and clear across the country. The husbands of two friends, with young families, had both come down with sudden and serious heart problems and were without diagnoses.

A friend's child had suddenly contracted a serious disease and needed a transplant while another woman's child had been in a serious accident, was still in the hospital and would be there for a long time to come. This was just after I read about the true recent experience of a woman whose child was born with Down's syndrome and her dealing with the difficult knowledge that he would never drive a car, never go to prom and never live by himself. Ever.

Suddenly, self-sufficiency was put into perspective. The children, the laundry and even the toilet cleaning downsized to appropriate scale while, simultaneously, listening to these grave situations gave me needed opportunity to get out of myself and give the support my husband had shared with me.

Driving home after these visits, I could hardly wait to wrap my arms around each one of my family, thankful they could breathe, speak and even use the potty.