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.