I always thought it was a bit narcissistic when people used someone else's loss or grief as an excuse to "count their own blessings." But last night when I heard of the death of a local 4-year-old, I did just that.

I crept into Sam's room and curled beside the tangled mess she had become since R put her down two hours earlier, a crumbled pile of blankets on top of her, her hair matted and sweaty, thumb white and dimpled from her mouth. I curled into her and she sighed and nestled beside me and all I could think was thank god it was not her. And yet, I know it could have been. At any moment it could be any one of us.

It is easy in the moments—when she is fighting me not get dressed, insisting on taking toys to school when it is against the rules or pushing her brother's buttons—to forget just how much I adore her and how lucky I am to have both her and Alan in my life and not in the cliched sense, either. I don't find motherhood easy. I never will.

Perhaps some people keep a clean home, make stellar organic meals from scratch and always plan fun and intellectually stimulating activities for their children while also managing to keep smiling and having sex with their spouses. That person is not me, much as I wish it were.

I find motherhood exhausting and challenging so it is easy to forget in moments just how blessed and lucky we are. We had two healthy and easy pregnancies that produced two healthy, happy children of each sex. We have a marriage that is even stronger today than the day we were married and we are best friends.

Sometimes it feels wrong to count our blessings, as if we will anger the gods by being grateful. But at other times it is so necessary to remind ourselves, even in the midst of anger or frustration or even flat-out misery, that we are living enviable lives, that we have things others can only dream about and mostly that a life filled with love is almost always the key to a happy life.

So this morning, I took on my usual tasks—making breakfast, cleaning it up, cleaning Alan's poop, getting both kids dressed, cleaning the dog's accident, picking up the house, starting the laundry—with a sense of gratitude. And unlike most mornings, this sense of gratitude made it all easier.

Instead of screaming at Sam when she insisted on toting her Curious George book into pre-school, I gently took the book, rocked it, sang to it and "put it to bed," a strategy that seemed to appease Sam's desire to bring it inside.

Mommy stayed calm, Sam stayed happy and we all got what we wanted—an unusual outcome, indeed. So, I am grateful today, even on the heels of someone else's loss. I have lost many people I loved in my life and I know how easily people can slip away.

Today I am holding my babies close and remembering that even when it is harrowing and awful, it is actually a pretty wonderful life.