The village strikes again.

I cherish our village. Until today, though, I had no idea that our village was composed of strangers, too.

I sat down in our seat on the plane--after abundant offers to help and many sweet interactions with my baby girl--thinking about how people are good. I was worried that Klara would be the bundle of energy she was on the way out and was relieved when she immediately fell asleep on my chest. The relief turned to worry when I noticed that she was especially warm and, each time she woke up, she would quickly fall back asleep or quietly stare off into space. I made a note to myself that I should grab some Children's Tylenol in the Las Vegas airport, but I couldn't help but be a little relieved that this flight was so much easier than the last. Then she awoke and started hysterically crying during landing, so I pulled out a bottle that she drank with ease. When we arrived in Las Vegas, I stood up to grab my bag, and Klara vomited all over me, her, the aisle, and the seat. Everyone jumped to my rescue, but we were both crying at this point.

I changed her and me into new clothes (plenty of clothes for baby, and a shirt for you, Traveling Mamas!) and ran into the store to grab some Tylenol, realizing that she was getting hotter and hotter and more and more lethargic; I was teary and scared to death. It turns out that they don't sell Children's Tylenol (or any children's fever reducer) in the Last Vegas airport. Want Children's Claritin to put your kid to sleep during the flight? They have that. No Tylenol, though. One of the clerks mentioned a nurse's station on the other side of security. I was prepared to cross back through security until I found out that the nurse's station was closed--five minutes ago.

At this point, my tears were becoming more and more abundant, and Klara seemed sicker and sicker. I contemplated calling a taxi and spending the night in Vegas, but I didn't have a carseat, and I didn't even know where to start with that.

This is where my village comes in.

I started asking moms, through my puffy eyes and snotty nose, if they had Tylenol on them. They didn't. One mom ran up to me and said, "I do! I have a thermometer and Motrin! Come here!" She pulled out the thermometer, looked at her husband and said, "Fuck. It's in my checked bag." I assured her that I was thankful for the thermometer that confirmed that Klara's fever was too high. This stranger-mom wasn't ready to give up. She pulled me to the Southwest desk (I already tried that) and insisted that they make an announcement, asking for Children's Tylenol. They did. Another mom, one who'd commented on my sweet baby earlier, ran up to me and said, "I have Motrin!" My tears were sobs at this point.

She made me sit down and used her phone to figure out the correct dosage. We gave my girl the medicine she needed, and I cried some more and thanked the moms some more. I left armed with a baby dosed up on fever reducer and a thermometer to check on her later.

She immediately fell back asleep, and by the time we got on our next flight, she was chatting up everyone and having a grand old time. Thank goodness for fever reducers!

More, though, I'm thankful for those moms. They helped me think clearly when I was utterly panicked. They both said, "I know how scared you must be. I'll help you."

There's a sisterhood of moms. It must be one of the most powerful forces in the universe--second only to the love a mom has for her child. I'm crying now thinking about it.