My son Isaac came home from school this afternoon and told his brothers that his teacher, Mrs. Hood, asked his second grade class to write down what they are most thankful for in their lives. Mrs. Hood said it couldn't be anything that cost money, like a computer or Rollerblades. That thing for which they would give special thanks on Thanksgiving had to be something of immense emotional value, not material worth. Isaac's answer to what he holds in his heart as his greatest gift was: "My parents, because they love me and look after me." As he relayed this to the family, his little voice got husky. I hugged Isaac hard and told him that what I was most thankful for was the love of my children, and that it was a thankfulness I felt not only on Thanksgiving, but every day.

Long after Isaac squirmed free from my embrace, I remained alone at our kitchen table, overwhelmed by the profound meaning of his teacher's simple question and our child's simple response. Isaac counts on his mommy and daddy to "look after him." It struck me what an enormous responsibility we accept when we make the choice to bear children, and provide a foundation upon which they steady themselves. Our offspring get our unwavering support when life feels shaky, or when their peers are bullies, and what we get in return are endless feelings of being loved from giving love, that outpouring of heart energy. 'Tis an amazing gift indeed -- our children -- to be thankful for, eternally.

When I left the field of daily print journalism -- a job that meant interviewing famous people and traveling to exotic places -- to spend more time at home with our kids, I often would hear from former colleagues: "What do you do all day?" As the years have gone by and my babies are now school boys, my heart swells with the realization of what mothers do all day: We take care of others -- feeding, clothing, cleaning -- and in giving, we receive more than any profession, however glamorous, can ever give back -- a bounty of unconditional love.

Not one day goes by when we're at home with our children that we're not humbled, mercifully and tearfully brought to our knees in thanksgiving, to have been blessed with a child, or two or four or 10, like many families had in the Irish-Catholic neighborhood I grew up in outside of Chicago. No job, no matter how lucrative or powerful, gives us as much as we get from our kids: love in fountains, love in tiny bursts, extraordinary feelings of love sparked by the most ordinary of activities.

I'll tell you about some of my own extraordinary ordinary moments when I feel so full of thanksgiving that I could burst: eating clementines with the boys on the back porch, the sticky, citrus juice squirting our faces; reading "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair" to twins Jack and Zane as they are huddled, cheek to cheek, against my chest. While they soak up the saga of Rapunzel with the golden braids, their mommy is soaking in the sweet smell of their hair, she is reveling in the softness of their skin as she pokes her fingers underneath their red sweatshirts to stroke their bellies.

I am filled with enormous gratitude as I prepare our Thanksgiving meal. At the kitchen sink, I am kneading the lumps out of steamy white potatoes while four sons are drawing stick figures on pastel construction paper. Zane hands me his picture and it's a girl with a big smile and squiggly lines as hair. He has scrawled above her head: "My Mommy. I love Mommy so much." Again, a simple moment, a simple picture, make me deeply thankful for the sons who have brought me more happiness than I have ever felt.

As you savor your own turkeys and butter-drenched mashed potatoes, look around you at the people you adore the most on earth who are seated at your Thanksgiving tables. If you are lucky, your parents and sisters and brothers also will be present, and there will be a multi-generational infusion of love coming at you from all directions. It is in loving our families and being loved back that we can fully flex our spiritual potential, and experience true joy -- the kind that lasts.