Before I became a mom, I didn’t realize that there was a whole mom subculture. There’s the camaraderie, but there’s also a hierarchy: the newbies, the experienced parents with older kids and those who are on their second child, or third, or more. My great-aunt Phyllis was one of 22 children. Now that’s seniority!

Anyway, I soon discovered that we newbies get a bit of a razzing. For one thing, we support an entire industry of new-fangled baby supplies, most of which get used only once (or never). My daughter flat-out refused to wear any hats or booties no matter how adorable they were. She would tear them off and fling them across the room faster than a new mom could say, “Get the camera!”

Another rookie maneuver, according to many seasoned parents, is worrying too much. Guilty as charged. The first time we went to the pediatrician when it probably wasn’t necessary, our doctor looked at us with a twinkle in his eye and the hint of a smile on his lips as he said, “You’ll be surprised how resilient babies are.” And I was.

When I was growing up, my mom was an emergency room clerk, so almost nothing was an emergency. She eyed all illnesses suspiciously and generally felt that, unless my head had fallen off, it was probably psychosomatic. When I was 13, I was in a pretty bad accident. I ran down the block to the hospital where my mom worked (it was her day off). I walked up to the ER clerk and sheepishly told her that I needed to fill out the necessary paperwork. She took one look at me and said, “No, you don’t!” as she pulled me into an operating room where I was suddenly surrounded by doctors and nurses. I didn’t want to overreact.

My daughter asked for a doctor’s kit for Christmas when she was 2, a “real” first aid kit when she was 5 and crutches when she was 9. “Oh, maybe she’ll be a doctor when she grows up,” people say. And I think to myself, “Yeah, maybe a doctor … or maybe a hypochondriac.”

Uh-oh, I think I’m becoming my mom.