Being in Houston, as I was for the past 48 hours, always brings back so many memories. My high school friends, it turns out, have a monthly dinner that they all go to and keep their friendships alive. I was unable to join them, but it was nice to hear about it. My dear beloved friend Julie is bringing her baby Neil to meet her parents, and they arrive at almost the very moment I left; it was a bittersweet piece of news, like so much of this week has been.

My beloved dad, secure and safe at home once again, fills me with joy.

I was also going around town a bit (by car and by train — it’s awesome!) and that always brings back memories. I ended up in River Oaks, and passed Birra Poretti’s (sp?) a restaurant that brought back a particularly wonderful memory.

My mom, with a doctorate in psychology and a special interest in life skills, was a real resource for my friends when we were going through puberty. She was unafraid of questions about drugs, sex and, I guess, rock & roll, although frankly she knew the least about that last one. I remember, with some horror, when some of my friends were over (mixed gender!) and expressed curiosity about contraception. She ended up bringing out her whole teaching kit, showing us all the different methods of contraception. It was TERRIBLE, and yet — wonderful. I think everything about being a teenager is terrible and wonderful.

On the drugs, she was more emphatic and less flexible, telling me again and again the dangers of trying cocaine even one time, “It is neurological! You will be ADDICTED FOR LIFE!” she’d declare. I’m not sure that is always exactly right, but, then again, I’m 40 and still haven’t tried cocaine, so … maybe it worked.

Anyway, when I turned 13, that was it — it was time for The Talk. It didn’t matter what I had picked up at school, or gossiped with my friends about, she was going to take me out to dinner, anywhere I wanted to go, and talk to me about the facts of life. Left with no choice, I chose Birra Poretti’s, and off we went.

Of that whole evening, I don’t remember anything about what she said. I’m sure she covered the basics (and I’m not going to teach them here — you’ll have to ask your own parents), and answered any questions I may have had.

What I do remember is where we sat — a dark booth, with stained glass above the seats.

I remember that I got to order anything I wanted — an unusual occurrence in those penny-pinching days.

I remember that she looked at me so deeply, so honestly and with so much love that I knew that I could ask her anything. I remember that she told me, with that look, that this was one of the most important conversations that I would ever have, and that she was wholly present for it. Here, in the moment, talking with me about stuff that was probably as awkward for her to say as it was for me to hear.

I remember how light I felt, in the dark bar, with her serious eyes on me, thinking: I can ask her anything, and she’ll tell me. It is, in some ways, the very essence of our relationship. I cherish it still: Thanks, mom, for teaching me the scary, valuable skill of being honest and present in conversations. On my very best days, I approach some of the candor and kindness that you gave to me that night.