Ever cared for a sick child? Have you ever experienced feelings such as I did? I recall that strangely satisfying feeling of nurturing my child when she was sick. I wondered if I was a little sick in the head for oddly enjoying caring for her small, fevered body. I ached for her and wanted to tend to her and make her well. There was something that I cannot still, all these years later–now that she is an older teen–put my finger on about those feelings I had when she was a puny toddler.

Lately, I've had similar feelings and realized the role others play in my daughter's nurture. The accompanying mantra that circles my mind is the saying popularized, once upon a time, by Hilary Clinton: "It takes a village." This summer, I've been acutely aware of our village–the many people who care for my teen who met all her milestones for physical and hormonal growth, but in mind and actions, is very much a child.

Trying to grasp this concept, I think about women. About mothers and grandmothers and great grandmothers. About small children and the love, nurture and care for the welfare of beloved small ones. And then I get all warm and fuzzy inside and think about the beautiful capacity that women demonstrate so well–to nurture children. There's something magical. Have you noticed? I see it around me frequently at restaurants and other public places. Generations of women convening over the recently born or a growing,  very loved, young child. They admire, primp, swaddle, dab, pick up and coo at the object of their affection–an offspring who shares their own blood. They wrinkle their brows and speak in hushed tones if something is wrong–Johnny is struggling with math, or lil' Sally broke her arm. Those children, generally grow up. But some, like mine, will stay children, in some respects, forever and continue to need the nurturance generally reserved for children.

I am grateful for my child's village. Mostly, for my oldest sister who was, much of my life, more like a mother to me than my 10-years-senior-sister. She easily moved into the role of beloved aunt. She and Grace are crazy for one another. Each summer my sister hosts "Camp Phi Phi," (short for her name, Phyllis). If the time and need are there, Grace attends two nonconsecutive weeks of Camp Phi Phi. This is no ordinary camp. Complete with daily trips to Brewster's Ice Cream, there's water parks, shopping (a favorite pasttime of my Grace's,) professional manicures and pedicures, and, by gawd, even massages.

I'm grateful for the paraprofessional who became a family friend. For the sitters who are special education teachers in training and know just what to do. For the nurturing high school teachers; speech, occupational and behavior specialists. Some of them have been with us since elementary school and watched my child grow. I am grateful for the many merchants in our community who take time to interact, they get it my child is special. They are our village, too.

I am grateful for her father (talk about nurture…) and his wife. For his mother, the founder of "Camp Ro-Ro."

As my daughter's evolution into adulthood looks to demand more, not less of me…I am appreciating this village. A village formed of people who care and nuture my special loved one.

Photo above: water park, Camp Phi Phi, circa 2007