My mom never had conversations with me about puberty or dating or any of that stuff that mothers and daughters usually talk about (I guess, anyway; maybe all moms have relationships with their daughters that are as weird as mine — I can dream, can’t I?). I never talked to her about the boys I had crushes on or asked her questions about dating, how to apply makeup, etc. I think she just hoped I’d figure it out on my own and be smart enough to not get knocked up while in high school (I did manage to stay fetus free, so take that, 16 and Pregnant alumni).

I called my mom over the weekend to wish her a safe and fun trip to visit her in-laws. She’ll be in Arizona (or, as she says it, “Air-eee-jone-uh”) for a few days before driving over to Las Vegas for a few days of gambling and shenanigans. During our chat, I heard the usual complaining about Meechygan’s horrible winter before Mom transition to a new topic. During virtually every conversation with my mom, the conversation will inevitably shift in one of two directions: either praise for her children or gripes about them.

Shopping for my mom is extremely difficult. One year I gave her some Julia Roberts movies on VHS, and she scowled and said, “Why I wanna watch these?” Another time I bought her a nice light blue sweater from the Gap, and the following year she flew out to Seattle for a visit and brought a bunch of clothes for me, one of which was the same sweater I gave her for Christmas. Lately, though, my siblings and I have had success pooling together for a big gift that makes Mom happy. Even if the Great Big Present from the Kids doesn’t work out, there’s always Estee Lauder or Clinique to fall back on — she goes apepoop for cosmetics and perfume.

My mom had called on New Year’s Eve to see what I was doing to celebrate, but I missed her call so she left a message. Here’s what she said, verbatim: “What are you doing New Year’s Eve? Partying already?! *silence* Anywayyyy, I call for have a happy new year and lots of luck to my baby girl. Okay? Then healthy, okay? Bye.”

When I was 16 years old, my mom bought me a new Ford Contour sedan. It was blue with a little pink stripe along the sides that I made the dealership remove because I thought it looked stupid (it was). I was so excited to have my first car and the freedom that came with it. Three weeks after she handed the keys over to me, I was driving to a friend’s house for a sleepover when I came across an intersection that had a blinking red for those driving east-west (which was me) and a blinking yellow for north-south. I mistakenly thought the intersection was a four-way stop. Not realizing that the car heading towards me from the right had a blinking yellow and was under no obligation to yield to me, I stopped at the intersection, then started to go again and was promptly t-boned by another sedan. My car skidded about 50 feet off the road and slid between two telephone poles. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, I was actually okay. The Contour, on the other hand, was not — I succeeded in totaling a brand-new car after having driven it for only 21 days. Needless to say, my mom was less than thrilled with my carelessness and inexperience.