No mom is an island.

When my husband and I were expecting our first child, and I was devouring piles of books that spelled out, in grim detail, every single thing that could go wrong with my pregnancy, I found the best remedy in taking a walk. During lunch I would stroll the streets near my office, noticing the hundreds of humans walking around who had apparently survived the birthing process in one piece. "If all these people got born in the usual way, I guess my baby can, too," I would tell myself. Sure enough, he did.

The assembled workers of downtown Chicago were but the first of the large supporting cast who helped us bring up a child in this often scary world. Next onto the stage came a wise and understanding pediatrician who seemed surprisingly confident that I could indeed mother this squalling child; then a friend who said, "Don't worry, it took me two months to get comfortable nursing my first." Whew.

Then came Mom, to babysit one day each week and to be on hand ever since. Their grandparents have been strong and loving forces in the lives of our kids, throughout the Terrible Twos and Ferocious Fours, reassuringly sturdy during the storms of adolescence.

One Sunday after Mass, the pastor said to our son, then age 4, "How about you and your parents coming back to the rectory for some coffee cake?" In the nine years since, this wonderful priest has also nourished him on respect and friendship, not to mention homilies that expand his mind and challenge his faith. Teachers at our parish school have encouraged him, giving wings to his imagination. The school principal sees right through the eighth-grade adolescent bravado. The other day she said, smiling broadly, "They try so hard to be cynical, don't they? Aunts and uncles, nieces, nephews, good friends have passed on their love of baseball, politics, history, music, poetry, astronomy, Star Wars, Franklin Roosevelt, Willie Mays, the Catholic Church.

Sometimes help arrives via the written word: the book that assured me I was not the only parent of a 4-year-old to suspect I had a juvenile delinquent on my hands. Double whew. Or Tired of Arguing with Your Kids? by Dolores Curran, which suggested replying to "You're so mean" with, "Yes, I learned that at Mean Mom School." If you, too, could use a flesh perspective on disciplining your kids--and who couldn't?--see our interview with noted family expert Barbara Coloroso on pages 12-16. And don't miss our U.S. CATHOLIC reader survey on family spirituality (pages 18-21).

Being Catholic is not about "me and God"; it plants us firmly in a community. This is never more true than in parenting. Choose carefully the people who will walk with you and your kids. And never underestimate your value in the lives of the children around you.