Today I am home taking care of my child with special needs. He's had some sort of illness the past three days, and for at least one of those, I sent him to school, thinking he was OK.

But after a night of his being up with ear pain and stuffy sinuses, it was time to keep him home to rest and recuperate. I took the opportunity to catch up on some of his hygiene. Most times, I let him bathe himself and he does a reasonably good job. About every two weeks, though, I scrub him down and tend to the things he cannot do.

But first I take a deep breath and remind myself not to grind my teeth.

He has sensory issues that, coupled with his cognitive delays, make even baths and filing his nails a gauntlet. What is a mere annoyance (grooming cuticles, washing your face) can be torture to him, because what he feels is not what most people feel. The experiences are amplified through his central nervous system and his reduced ability to understand that these things are a temporary inconvenience for permanent improvement.

As he gets older -- he's 11 and a half -- his personal issues increase and so does my workload. He's getting acne, for example, and he's 5-foot-3, 112 pounds.

Today I had him get in a nice, warm tub (good for those stuffy sinuses and clogged ear) and I tackled his nails. I used exfoliant on his face and arms. I scrubbed his knees and elbows.

And I used every trick in the book that I know to get through it. We pretended to be at a salon, getting a pedicure (so he'd stop yelling about getting his nails trimmed). I let him smell the lemony cuticle cream in a stab at relaxing aromatherapy (it worked for a second). We talked about how, if you keep your arms and elbows and knees scrubbed with a washcloth, they won't get so dry and bumpy, and yes, that happens to everyone.

Repeatedly, I stopped scrubbing and fussing when he yelled, put my hands in my lap and said, "When you're ready, let me know and I can finish." I can tell you that five years ago or so, I had not developed that kind of patience with him and ended most cleanups physically and emotionally drained, my jaw hurting from grinding my teeth.

I finished up with some lovely moisturizer on his hands, arms, knees and elbows, and by that time, he was relaxed and sleepy. His face glowed, and he smelled so good.

As I cleaned up the towels and nail files and lotions, and shook out my stress, I thought about my friend who must carry his 15-year-old son with special needs down the stairs because he cannot walk them. And I recalled all the patience I've seen exhibited by the therapists and aides who have worked with my son over the years.

What kind people they are. It's from them that I have learned to keep my voice down, to go with the flow as much as I can. It is not motherly instinct, always, that gets you through caring for a child with special needs.

But it is a maternal feeling that you have when you're done with all the scrubbing and care. I felt keenly that I'd done something special and necessary for one of my own.

This was my Mother's Day.