Last night I spearheaded an event to take care of fifty children so their parents could go out together. It makes me laugh to rake in the gratitude. People act as if I have stayed up all night with a feverish girl, or carried two soggy, flailing toddlers across a busy street because they refused to walk, or cut up four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into perfect triangles, because that is the requirement for a finicky child to consume them. I have done those things to be sure, for my own offspring, with no more accolades than a wail.

But the parents who are exhausted by the incessant needs of their kids are supremely grateful for a break even if I did not break a sweat. The reality is the children ride scooters and toss basketballs about three feet lower than the hoop, and climb the monkey bars until it's time for macaroni. Sometimes I mop up spilled water, or turn on the faucet for a boy washing his hands. Yet a three hour stint that includes a movie is simply not that hard.

I have wondered what makes the difference, and I guess it boils down to deserving. Those parents do not deserve for me to offer, so their response is disproportionately effusive. My own kids certainly do deserve a mother who will stay up with them, and make scrambled eggs for the umpteenth time, and toss socks in the dryer so they will be warm on a winter's day. Hence the sense of joy is diluted by duty.

Marriage can be muddled by presumptions too. Of course John will take a turn with putting kids to bed, so why would I bother with recognition?

Still the oil of appreciation is a welcome one in marriage, even if it seems likely that the other person will heft half of the weight of childrearing, or finances. And no one I know ever ran out of breath from saying thank you.

Don't tell the parents that couple's evening out is fun for me too, because hey it's nice to be a hero for a few minutes. Besides I apply it retroactively to my own brood who sometimes forgot to turn around long enough to say thank you for the pizza.