There is nothing more nerve-wracking than your mother’s first visit to the city she’s been begging you not to move to for the past decade.

Add to that the fact that you’re fully adjusted after eight months in this new home, have the first serious boyfriend of your life, and don’t currently need anything at Bed, Bath, & Beyond.

In the words of my mother, “Well, looks like you’re not coming back as soon as I thought…”

I have lived “away” from home for a decade. First there were four years of college in Boston then five plus years of post-grad life in Manhattan. But there’s a difference between hosting your mom at your college dorm or the 300 sq. ft. apartment you share with your cousin and welcoming her to your Spanish-style duplex with back-and-front yard for a brunch you’re throwing in her honor.

Boston was a 5.5 hour mini-van drive away from the house where I grew up. Manhattan, a hour, tops. Los Angeles is a two-movie plane ride, and, “those movies are $7.50 a pop!”

It is important to mention that my mom is the easiest guest in the world. A few weeks ago I asked her what she wanted to do for our nice, long Saturday together – go to the beach? take a hike in the mountains? shop along Melrose? “You have a nice backyard, right?” she said, “I don’t need to do anything special. I just want to sit outside.” It’s not the stress of her being difficult to entertain or please that had me worked up.

It is also important to mention that my mom was in town for work (she is a curriculum consultant for school districts) and that she stayed with good friends who she’s known since she and my Dad lived here in their 20’s. So it’s not the stress of introducing her to this city over five, full days of minute-by-minute plans.

But neither the fact that L.A. is a place she knows well or the fact that she was incredibly busy during her five days here changed how consumed I was with showing her that I’m happy, healthy and secure in my home away from her home.

And then once I was fairly certain that part was covered – dealing with the guilt only a daughter can feel because those three things are true.

“She may have a little bit of a hard time seeing you so totally independent and grown up here,” R warned.

That’s the part that made me most concerned.

If the international center of the entertainment industry where in New York instead of L.A. I’d happily live 55 miles from my mother for the rest of my life. I’d go home for every holiday and random weekends in between. I’d have Mom into the city for shopping trips and Broadway shows and slumber parties. I’ve never one been the kind of kids to say, “God I need to get far away from this family for a few years!” or even the kind of kid who feels it. My move was career driven, and the only thing that prevented me from making it earlier was the idea of being far away from my family. I miss them every, single day I’m out here.

So the problem isn’t that my mom represents this nagging, unwanted pull back to a place I was always dying to leave – it’s that she embodies the reasons I didn’t want to leave it.

I was stressed out about making sure she knows that my life here is healthy, happy and “worth it.” But mostly that’s because showing her is the same as proving it and feeling it myself. In many ways my mom is like a mirror to gut-check my own feelings and progress with this whole transition.

It wasn’t easy to see that self reflected back and say, “yes, okay, we’re going to keep going on this path even though we both know how hard it is,” but luckily my mom-in-the-mirror smiled back at me and told me she loved and believed in everything she saw.

There’s a sliiiight chance the day-long wine tasting adventure I took her on Saturday helped rose-color her glasses, but a tipsy mom is an honest mom, as far as I’m concerned.