In the first week of my family's exile from New Orleans, Brenda set about the task of easing our transition from life in the Victorian double gallery we own in an historic neighborhood across the river from the French Quarter to squatting in a room of her well-manicured suburban ranch house in a subdivision south of Houston, Texas. And to her credit, she made significant headway in paving a trail through what was, to us, thorny and uncharted territory. Namely, she enabled me to create what I hoped would be a reassuring environment for my son, Dylan, in his make-shift new "home."

First, Brenda secured a position for him in the Methodist daycare center down the road, which offers a "Mother's Day Out," three days a week. Dylan is accustomed to daycare and to interacting with other children, so, naturally, I was concerned about him in his week "off" after our evacuation, during most of which he was subject to the stressed company of stunned parents. The center, obviously organized to accommodate stay-at-home mothers, whose presence is legion here, was generous enough to allow Dylan temporary free residency in its small and appropriately nurturing domicile. In addition, Brenda's own sister-in-law brought over a box of books and toys to donate to my refugee toddler. Soon, my brother's office was overflowing with toy cars and other plastic objects, while stacks of children's books lined Dylan's bed. And there was more. Upon hearing of our plight, a haircutter at the local salon refused payment after cutting Dylan's hair. As residents of Louisiana, we were given a 25 percent discount at the nearby "Buckle" store and 20 percent off of our breakfast at the neighborhood diner. Such acts of goodwill peppered our days. For her part, Brenda would turn up in the evening with a new outfit or pajama set, purchased from babyGap on her way home from work, to supplement the few items of clothing I managed to stuff in Dylan's suitcase on our way out the door. Occasionally, she'd throw in a bottle of wine to pacify his parents.

Meanwhile, we watched on television as desperate evacuees from New Orleans' Superdome and Convention Center were finally bussed out of the city to Houston's Astrodome. We were all, it seems, benefiting from the prosperity of Texans. The odd thing about all of this generosity for me, on a personal level, was, simply, that it felt quite odd; at once necessary and excessive. Here we were, my family of three, essentially in need of support and compassion and yet, not truly "refugees," with all of the third world (racial and economic) connotations that that term suggests. We did have a place to stay and nutritious food and childcare services. Moreover, we are white and middle class. And so, when, on the second day of "Mother's Day Out," I showed up with Dylan's lunch in a Kroger bag, and his teacher looked at me with a mixture of pity and embarrassment and told me, "I bought him a lunchbox over the weekend," I felt both weirdly insulted and vaguely inadequate. I had not provided well for my son, did not even think to pack his lunch in a lunchbox to match the care and attention to detail of other, less nomadic mothers, the stationary mothers of suburbia, whose children would grow up to be sturdy, productive citizens of America, or, at the very least, of Texas. Perhaps, as an individual, partnered or not, I could more easily stomach this period of impotence and limbo, venture across the country to embrace new and surprising opportunities. As a mother, I am troubled by my association with "them," the multitude of homeless and poor, flooding the state and desperate for handouts. Leaving Dylan's "Dolphin Room" at the daycare center, I observed that, without exception, every cubby housed a solid little lunch box bedecked in bright colors.

Still, as we sat across the dinner table from Brenda, sipping wine, or as Dylan enjoyed his new cars or read his new books, and, more recently, began to recite the days of the week, obviously indebted to the lessons of "Mother's Day Out," I certainly felt comforted and, despite myself, reassured.