My mom works hard. She’ll tell you so herself. She runs the medical records department at Memorial in Santa Rosa. It’s the reason she keeps after me to get a hospital job. She hears about the openings and she knows how to get things accomplished. If I worked at the same place, we could complain about all the people we didn’t like, and she could check up on me five times a day. I’m not sure she thinks I could manage to get myself married off to a doctor, but maybe I could snag a pharmacist or a physical therapist.

No thanks. I love my mom, she’s awesome, but she never lets up. Her latest big idea was that I should grow legal pot. She had it all figured out: the permits, the expenses, the marketing. I told her she should take it up herself.

It’s not just me. My older sister is married with two super-cute kids and she’s as settled down as it gets, nice house, loving hubby, etc. And she’s still in line for plenty of mom-grief about how she could be doing it all different, or better. Of course, my mom dotes on those kids and she’d do anything for any of us except leave us in peace.

“Your skin is so dry, Carla,” she told me. “Your face is going to look like a yard of corduroy if you don’t use a better sunscreen.”

“I’m thinking of the chicken salad. What are you going to get?” We were in line for lunch at Panera, so I was especially pleased to be having a conversation about my complexion flaws. People were going to be sneaking looks at me, thinking, Yup, yup.

“I thought I wanted soup but now I’m not sure.” My mom pushed her sunglasses up on the top of her head so she could see the menu better. You had to let her throw one of her mom bombs, then she’d settle down and we might have a nice time.

We got our drinks and found a table and waited for the buzzer thing to go off. The place was crowded, and I sat with my feet and elbows pulled in so as not to trip anybody up. “I like your hair,” I told her. “It looks kind of surfer girl.” Or like, Surfer Mom Barbie, but I didn’t say it.