If there was an Academy Award category for Best Friend in a Supporting Role, I’d win it. I’m a textbook great best friend: I listen to my friends without judgement; I respect their decisions; I compliment them for their unique style. But if there happened to be an Academy Award for Best Parent, I wouldn’t even bother attending the proverbial awards ceremony. Not because I’m a shitty mom, mind you. Or because Meryl Streep — mother of four — would sashay past me with speech in hand.

Simply put, when it comes to raising my 13-year-old daughter Tess, I don’t always know how to act. I sometimes judge her. I occasionally tune her out. I definitely question some of her fashion choices. (I’d like to thank Princess Polly, peddler of paper towel-size tube tops.)

Any developmental expert will tell you it’s dangerous to upset the parent-child dynamic by trying to pal around with your kid. Boundaries erode. Authority evaporates. But what, I thought to myself, if I planned a mother-daughter getaway to New York City around a sneaky social experiment — and assumed the temporary role of BFF instead of mama bear?

“So like, I get to do whatever I want?” Tess asked when I told her about the plan. Not exactly, I said. But you can veto a visit to the Museum of Modern Art or shimmy into that tiny tube top and I promise not to roll my eyes. Tess approved, but I could tell she was doubtful. I distilled it down for her: “For the next five days, we’re going to be The Golden Girls instead of Gilmore Girls!”

On our flight from L.A. to N.Y., I quickly learned that the first rule of Friend Club is you grit your teeth and keep your mom mouth shut. When Tess carelessly spilled soda on her brand new white jeans, I handed her a napkin and didn’t say a word. Would I chastise a friend if she dribbled red wine on a sweater I gifted her? Nope. When we arrived at the chic Soho Grand — definitely not a family hotel — I didn’t push her to unpack either. Really, do sweatpants and hoodies even wrinkle?

A little history: my teen daughter and I bicker a lot. She’s headstrong, sarcastic and obsessed with social media. My objectives in befriending her on this trip were to establish equality, encourage mutual respect and prove to her that I can be as cool and fun as her favorite TikTokers. I know that sounds pathetic, but I was desperate. My daughter and I would be together for almost 150 hours straight and we both needed to reconnect. To meet those relationship goals, I let Tess sleep in and choose an activity each day. I didn’t make a face when she suggested we shop at Brandy Melville, even though there are 16 of them in California. When she picked up her phone during dinner one night, I stopped myself from snapping at her. Instead, I asked, “Can we watch some videos of people falling down over dessert?”

Like I said, I know how to be a good friend. At 55, I’ve devoted decades to strengthening bonds with the women in my life. My daughter, on the other hand, is a novice at friendship. She’s new to being trustworthy and generous with girls her age. What I also learned during this experimental vacation is that 13-year-olds traffic more in social dominance than empathy. They want to be heard rather than listen.

Tess is my one and only —and I fought for her like a rabid raccoon. She arrived after three excruciating rounds of IVF. Like other moms to an only child, I’m constantly riding a learning curve about parenting. Plus, with just one kid to raise, the pressure to have a good relationship is relentless. It’s like you have only one pair of jeans, so they need to always fit.

Did we fight? Did Dorothy and Blanche duke it out on almost every episode? But the difference is we argued on equal footing like two lionesses instead of sparring like a big cat and her cub. We respected each other’s opinions and insecurities too. When we went to Trapeze School in Brooklyn and Tess decided not to swing off the nose-bleed high platform, I didn’t pressure her at all. “I know I’m going to have regrets in life, but this won’t be one of them,” she said with impressive certainty.

Ultimately, the social experiment exceeded my expectations. We laughed at ourselves and each other. She confided in me her phobia of a tampon getting lost in her body. On the flight back to L.A., Tess took my hand. “Mom, I feel like I can trust you more,” she said. I might have teared up. And when she complained about being cold on the plane, I didn’t side-eye her tube top. I took off my sweatshirt and passed it to her without saying a word.

Monica Corcoran Harel is a journalist and screenwriter who’s covered culture and relationships for the New York Times, The Hollywood Reporter, Elle, and Los Angeles Magazine. She’s also the founder of Pretty Ripe, a beauty, style, and health newsletter for women over 40.