That was the last time I would make the mistake of divulging classified information to my mother. (Lesson learned.)

Like every stereotypical mother-daughter relationship, our interactions throughout middle and high school were defined by screaming matches about everything from getting my driver’s license (not until I was 17) to doing the dishes (she just yelled at me, OK?). To put it lightly, we were no “Gilmore Girls.”

The month before I left for college, our relationship came to a boiling point. Going a day without wanting to claw each other’s eyes out was like a day without hearing about Lindsay Lohan.

But after only a couple weeks living in a dorm with little but dining dollars and a mini fridge to my name, my mom’s comforting hugs starting sounding pretty good. At that point, I swallowed my pride and picked up the phone.

I knew our relationship had changed when I found myself begging her to fly down from the Bay Area to “hang out” with me.

That weekend, over mouthfuls of Vallarta’s carne asada fries and Sprinkles cupcakes, she asked me the one question every kid dreads hearing: “So, are you dating anyone?” In the past — true or not — I would respond with a curt “no” and change the subject. After sitting in a brief awkward silence, like a bad Twix commericial, I shoved a cupcake in my mouth and spent the chewing time mulling over how I was going to respond.

If I said yes, that would open up a Pandora’s box of questions and remarks I wasn’t sure I was ready for. If I said no, she would be left in blissful ignorance, but also missing out on a large part of my life.

“Mmyersh.”

“What?”

Swallow. “Yes.”

As expected, the hailstorm of questions was upon me: What’s his name? Is he nice? How did you meet him? Do you have a picture? Is he Asian?

After the firing squad was over, I realized that “the talk” wasn’t as bad as I thought.

I had done it. I had cautiously roamed where only the bravest children dare venture: I had let my mother in the “friend zone.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, I tried to be as open with my mother as possible: Yes, mother, I occasionally drink. No, mother, I’m not an alcoholic.

There have, naturally, been a few awkward comments. When I called her complaining about the stress of finals week, her first response was: “You didn’t miss your period, did you?” She also called my boyfriend and told him not to “do anything stupid to me.”

But despite the unsolicited commentary, I know my mom means well, and being friends with her has brought our relationship to a new level — just not the Facebook friend level. (She doesn’t need all the details.)