Whenever I reveal that I was born the only daughter of a free-spirited teenager, people judge. If I share that I was raised by an eccentric, obstinate, and wildly uninhibited single mother, I know the opinions that form. Their expressions always give them away as I’m judged and categorized into the inevitable: A Gilmore Girl.

Well people I’m here to set the record straight. Just because my mom had me at 16, worked her ass off as a single mother, got constant attention from foolish men and resolved to better herself so she could provide me a life of prosperity, doesn’t make her Momma Gilmore. And just because I was an awkward, prudish, bookish, sarcastic, sweetly resentful teenage daughter who preferred penny loafers to pleather pants doesn’t make me Gilmore Junior. Does it?

When I divulge the disfunction of my youth, do people have the right to laugh knowingly and declare my coming of age their favorite season? My circumstances were unique. My pain real. It’s not even possible that this infamous mother-daughter duo of the early 2000’s captured the essence of my life better than I often did. Is it?

Okay, I have a confession: I haven’t actually watched the show… until now. About 20 years after its debut on The CW and 15 minutes into the pilot episode, I realized I had been fighting the inevitable. Aside from a handful of minor differences, mom and I were, in fact, the Gilmore Girls.

Exhibit A: The Early Years

Okay, it wasn’t pleather pants. It was a turquoise leopard spotted body suit made of spandex. I was an active kid and Momma Gilmore said it would move with me. I wasn’t sure what that meant. I might have been naive about the ways of the world, but I instinctively knew that skin-tight anything was not what I wanted to be remembered for in the fourth grade. Mom just figured it was an adorable version of what she might like, and wouldn’t it go great with a leather skirt? In the end we can all agree that when mom makes a rare offer to spend money she doesn’t have on clothes, you go for the gold. So I asked for penny loafers. I guess this is why mom describes my pre-teen style as that of a small Mr. Rogers.

Exhibit B: The Awkward Years

Fast forward a few years and I’m at the county fair. I’m 13 years old, 80% awkward and 100% boy crazy. Like others my age, I’m fighting like hell to assimilate. My bangs are bulletproof, my County Seat jeans are pinned, and I smell like Debbie Gibson’s Electric Youth. I’m polishing off a corndog when mom shows up for carpool duty. It’s a hot July night and she’s wearing her standard purple mid drift and cutoff jean shorts. Legs for days. My friends flock to her and the boys stop and stare. Mortifying? Absolutely. Would I trade it? Never.

Exhibit C: The MILF Becomes a Grandma

I’ll never forget how uptight my husband and I were when we welcomed our firstborn into the world. We had rules, you see. Order was necessary. Not only was there a birthing plan, but there was a severe expectation of how that day would go down: we would time the contractions, do the breathing, evade the drugs, and shun the guests. With the right amount of control, we’d emerge triumphant, picture-perfect parents.

Momma Gilmore had other plans. In the most silent of protests, she’d peek around the curtain and creep into the room. She’d blend as best she could to the chaos of the moment before being kicked out to report to the rest of the family. She did this about ever hour or so during my 19-hour labor. But what I’ll never forget is how much I needed her there in those first few days. Not only to lend a hand so I could grab a shower. But to remind me that I was doing a great job when I struggled. Which was a lot.

It's About the Memories

As we prepare to celebrate the annual tradition of Mother’s Day, I encourage you to focus less on the flowers and more on the stories. Once a year we get the chance to truly celebrate mothers and mother figures. Travel the road of reflection.

Sure, I might feel like the WB ripped off my life, but the reality is I can’t be the only one out there whose relationship with their mother has a fabulously celebrated doppelgänger primetime dramedy. What’s yours?