This morning, my daughter cried—well, she’s two so she cries every morning about something—but today, it was because she didn’t like her new scooter helmet.

Here’s my parenting brag: I’ve never bought any baby food. I’ve never had a mush of green mashed peas flung at my wall. I’ve never played “airplane” zooming a spoon toward my daughter’s closed mouth. And I’ve never, ever begged her to eat a thing.

My mother loves to tell a story about how I would make my own sandwiches when I was three years old. Three! I used to think it was a sad story, a commentary on her non-parenting skills, but now that I’m a mom myself, I can see the silver lining: she inadvertently made me a super independent individual.

“Oooh, how bout my sperm meet your eggs tonight?” asked no man ever.

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat,” my doctor said to me. She didn’t sound very sorry, leaving the room so quickly—ostensibly so I could pull up my underwear—that she couldn’t hear me burst out in tears.

I once heard a comedian say, “Never ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless you actually see a baby’s head coming out of her legs.” Sage advice—too bad no one ever takes it. I can’t tell you how many times people asked me if I was pregnant, if I was planning on getting pregnant or what I was waiting for to get pregnant.