The day my daughter was born, her grandmother bought her a blanket. Although the weather was unforgivably hot during her newborn months, I wrapped my baby girl in that blanket every day.

When the fall came, the fluff and softness of her blanket became a source of warmth while she slept.

When her teeth started coming in, I would throw the blanket over my shoulder and let her head rest there as she chewed on frozen cucumber slices.

During her first cold, I washed that blanket every day, making sure it was germfree by bedtime, so she could nestle into it and let the humidifier hum her to sleep.

Now, almost a year since the two met, her blanket is always with her. The heat is back, but I keep it in the diaper bag at all times, in case she falls down or gets overtired.

It’s washed regularly, kept away from pets trying to steal its comfort for themselves and is always touching her face when she falls asleep.

I know where that blanket is at all times. I take care of it as if there is only one in the world and it belongs to my daughter.

It’s important to her; therefore it’s important to me.

Sometimes, I panic at the notion that O won’t feel the same way about me that I do for my mother. I try to recount my life from my mom’s point of view, and study all the things she did right in order to emulate it as my girl grows up.

That’s what stands out: what was important to me was important to her.

All mothers know the feeling of having a baby that finds comfort in something specific; a blanket, a pacifier, a certain song or a particular food. Once we find it, all of a sudden that thing becomes so important. We are ever aware of it, having it in our figurative back pocket for when they need it.

Because it’s important to them.

And as our little one grows, some things will fall by the wayside and new things will become important. Things will be important because they soothe, or they make them laugh or they help them learn.

Some things in my life that I considered important to me were also bad for me, but that didn’t stop my mother from considering them important. Nothing that I cared about was swept under the rug; nothing that seemed significant was ever overlooked, even if those things turned out to be mistakes.

So, as Mother’s Day comes and goes, let’s remember the things our moms put ahead of them in order to make sure we were comfortable and happy.

In the end, there is nothing more important to our children than their mother.

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Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Author’s Own