You committed to a whole year of breastfeeding. You made it. Through everything. Most moms quit way before that. You kept going. I saw what it cost you.

Almost every single night. Three, four books. Even when you're exhausted. You never sneak in "just one." You finish. You always finish.

The quiet ones — when he just wants to sit on your lap and watch the world go by. You don't need to entertain him. You don't need to do anything. He just wants to be where you are.

You hadn't had your coffee yet. You hadn't gotten dressed. You'd already made one for me — and you were holding our son. Thank you for giving me a family to love.

When he's at daycare, you don't relax. You watch. You ask. You call them out when something's not right. You're his only reliable witness. You take it seriously.

The first time he walked, you were sitting on the floor in front of him. I was filming. We both saw it happen. You'll remember that forever. So will I.

Most parents stand and watch. You sit down. You make up new games on the spot. You meet him where he is. I see you do it every day.

His second Halloween. First one he could actually do. You went out and got him a dalmatian costume — because he loves dogs more than anything in the world. Most moms would've grabbed something cute. You knew what he loved.

"We need to get fresh air and play" — you say it almost every day. And then you make it happen. Every weekend, every chance. You don't let him sit inside. You make him go.

It didn't matter how cold it was. You bundled him up and you went. You never used the weather as an excuse to stay inside.

If there's one thing about you as a mom that makes me say "how does she do that" — it's the patience. Most of the time you stay calm. When you can't, you ask me for help. (That's its own kind of strength.) You meet his big feelings with empathy.

Every night, you sing him this. I showed it to you years ago — before he was even an idea. Now it's his. Now it's all three of ours.

He's only 2. He won't remember most of this — but I will. One day when he asks me what kind of mom you were, I'll have all of this to show him. The patience. The songs. The dalmatian costume. The floor. You're his favorite person. You're mine too. Happy Mother's Day, Cass.