"Just five," I answer when asked how many children I have. Of course I'm joking. Not about the number of children, but the "just" part. Five is a lot of children. And a lot of children means I've paid my mommy dues.

I've used cloth diapers, baked cookies, built a Cub Scout bird feeder, and sewed 18 traditional Polish dresses for a dance recital. And, of course, I've spent countless hours cheering from the sidelines at my children's sporting events - never looking to collect any return on this investment.

I didn't realize I'd get paid dividends until I ran my first ultra-marathon - The Mountain Masochistic 50-plus mile Trail Race in Virginia - with my daughter Emily, 21, serving as my "crew" and personal servant for a day.

Before "The Masochist," Emily's vision of a mother-daughter activity was to go shopping and "do" lunch. I was a little skeptical that my designer daughter could rise to the occasion and put my needs atop her list.

The test of her devotion began at the pre-race pasta dinner, when the race director asked the crowd of hundreds for a show of hands if The Masochist was their first ultra effort. There were three hands: me and two other suckers.

Apparently I'd picked a bad first ultra. One veteran told me, no problem, when I didn't finish, I could run the JFK 50 the next month (with a distance that's really 50 miles instead of 54, has modest terrain rather than mountains and rivers, and a 14-hour time limit, rather than 12:00.) Emily rallied and began her non-stop, "you can do it" mantra.

The next morning, we got up at 3:50 to prepare for the 6:30 start. We went over the plan for each of the 10 crew-accessible aid stations - haul all my gear from the car, including the mini-cooler and camera.

At each aid station Emily waited, armed and ready. When she saw me coming, her worried, expectant look would transform to one of relief. We'd make all the necessary switches, she'd assure me I was ahead of the time cutoffs, and pound me with positives. Then she'd jump in the rental car and jam it on the mountainous roads to the next stop.

The last accessible aid station was at 42 miles. Emily told me I looked great. Later she said I had looked half-dead. I had lost time on the 40- minute cushion I'd built up on the cutoff. As she watched me stumble out of the aid area, she worried I'd fall behind and race officials would make me quit.

She drove to the finish line, where she had a couple hours to fret. Every time someone rounded the final corner she held her breath. As the 12:00 time limit neared she became more and more stressed.

Finally she saw me. She jumped up and down and waved. I waved back.

At the finish line we hugged and cried. I had made it: 11 hours, 29 minutes and 28 seconds. I was a bona-fide ultra runner. Over the course of that day, I realized my daughter was a bona-fide woman.

As we got in the car, both jubilant over my finish, she said, "Mom, I'm so glad I got to be the one to share your first ultra."

While finishing meant a lot, it didn't mean half as much as the sense all my "mommy moments" had come back to me, with dividends too priceless to measure.

Ann Forshee-Crane is a freelance writer, mother of "just five," and a runner for 35 years.