When I was younger, I could never figure out why—for the love of God and all that was pure in this world—my mom would get up at before 5 a.m. every morning. As a teenager, the thought of even stirring before noon on my days off would send me into convulsions.

I was a sleeper-inner. My mom was a getter-upper.

Years later, I’ve found my internal clock waking me up around 5:30 a.m. every morning. Must be a genetic thing. Oh sure, I set my alarm clock, but can’t remember the last time I’ve actually heard its tolling bells. As fate would have it, I have turned in to my mother.

There were countless times I’d be stumbling in around 4 a.m.-ish to find my mom outside on the patio. She had a cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other. A giant oversized turquoise bathrobe hung off her like a, uh, giant oversized turquoise bathrobe. I looked at her like she was crazy. She glanced at me with a glazed, serene look. At age 18, you don’t realize the importance of a little thing called “bliss.”

For my mom, she achieved her bliss with some solitude.

If you’ve met my mom for any length of time, you know why folks call her The Bevinator. She’s opinionated, brassy and has little-to-no volume control. In the mornings, however, she’s anything but overbearing.

Back in the day, when I’d finally stumble out of bed, Mom would say, “You’ve wasted half your Thursday already.” Cue my disapproving look to her disapproval. Now when I’m home, I’ll get up early to bond with Bev, in utter silence. We may signal to each other when there are deer in the backyard. Or nod when the teakettle goes off. But for the most part our pleasantries are exchanged with polite smiles and horrible bed head.

The fact I willingly get up early now is a testament to my mom. My dad, meanwhile, has regressed to being a teenager. He’ll get up when he damn well feels like it. “Your father is still in bed,” tattles Mom. “OMG, it’s like 10:30 a.m.! That man has wasted half the day,” I’ll lament.

Yep, I’ve totally turned in to my mom. I think I need a nap.