Author Archives: Tina Drakakis

About Tina Drakakis

I am a mom, a wife, a writer, a blogger and (most important) a Former-Reality-TV-Star. Really. You can Google it. My essays have appeared in the Boston Globe & HuffPost and I appeared in the inaugural cast of "Listen To Your Mother, Boston" sharing my original essay, "The Thinking Girl's Thong." A hundred years ago one of my esssays was featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series (alas, erased off the internet so maybe check the dark web?) yet I'd say “Most Popular 1984” is pretty high on my list of achievements (next would be that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but my kids forbid me to talk about it anymore). I might leave my husband for Glen Powell, either Hemsworth brother or Sawyer from "Lost" and he is well aware of it (my husband ... not Sawyer.) I am happiest writing and watching the four impressive young adults I own. I drink way too much wine if the music is awesome (and since my music is awesome that tends to be an issue at times) and I still have a bestie from fifth grade. I tend to steer clear from women who don't. My collection of essays, A Momoir, is a work in progress and various chapters are posted -- agent interest is welcomed!

(Too Much) Food for Thought

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My college friend, who’d graduated a year before me, came back to visit me one weekend during my senior year. Still clinging to my freshman fifteen (cough, 3 years later), I was stunned to see her svelte figure. What the…? I could’ve sworn she was just like the rest of us — chunky from chicken wings and puffy from pizza — just the last time I saw her. What was her secret, I demanded to know over pitchers of full-caloried, non-lite beer.

She shrugged. “I eat to live — not the other way around.” She was burning the midnight oil with her first teaching job and sometimes (deep breath here) forgot to eat — at times opening up a single can of corn and digging right in with a fork. Dinner. Imagine that.

It’s been a long time since that unsettling day but it turns out, away from the excess and decadence of all-you-can-eat cafeterias and 24-hour sub shops, I’m not much of a food person myself; today her words seem hardly profound anymore. Sure I’ve got my favorites (I defy anyone to pass up a pig in a blanket and gaaaaawd, New York bagels!) but I’ve realized that, like my friend, I’m not such a big fan of food. In fact, I rarely ever even think about it let alone obsess over it like a few people I know.

I couldn’t tell you what I’ve eaten at any wedding (and definitely can’t recall what was served at my own) and it takes way more than a strand of hair in my plate to make me send any dish back. I don’t salivate over brownie sundaes and I can’t even think about Chinese food in the summertime. Going out to dinner is a simple joy based solely on the fact I’m not home scouring the sink. Actually, as a mom, a dinner out is clumped into the same luxury as getting my teeth cleaned without simultaneously rocking an infant car seat with my foot (who hasn’t done THAT?). For me, food’s always been an afterthought. Lunch? I don’t know, just how many leftover peanut butter and jelly crusts constitute an actual lunch?

When I became engaged I didn’t register for china. What for? I argued. Or better: have you met my friends? What in the world was I supposed to serve on expensive and delicate dinnerware to a group who typically raced the rising sun home to their beds after a night out?

My take-it-or-leave-it (not to be confused with my take-out) attitude has little to do with cooking. I can cook and I do cook. I’ve thrown dozens of parties but not once have I ever stressed out over a menu (my sister’s left eye is twitching right now at this admission; she, dear readers, is a foodie: one who will stir homemade risotto for hours until her wrist snaps off). Not me. I’ve scanned hundreds of recipes in an attempt to try something new, only to get to an ingredient I’ve never heard of and turn the page (what exactly is bulgur?). And, like millions of others, I’ve watched the Food Network in awe, truly believing that my kids would develop a fondness for (pick one) beets, turnips or summer squash if only I knew how to julienne.

Once for my birthday my husband thought it would be faaaaaabulous to treat me to a fine dining experience. You know, one of those “It’s a surprise — just look pretty, honey, and get in the car” (sure thing, Don Draper) . He found a unique French bistro that a local couple ran out of their home.

The husband was (according to them) a renown European chef and the wife was (according to mildly nauseating innuendo and touching) his biggest fan and cheerleader. Because various fine wines accompanied each course, (and because “wine tasting” is my own personal oxymoron) naturally we um, *overindulged a bit.

Before too long, we couldn’t wait to leave. By the time dessert was being presented we were offering up fake apologies and explanations of babysitter problems and texting friends underneath the table “Where R U?” I know, I know, you can take the girl away from the Big Mac but….

I must add that in no way is my family suffering from their mother’s lack of culinary class. They appreciate and embrace all kinds of foods. One eats mussels while the other grabs the chair farthest from them. One uses hot sauce on everything and one has never once felt a lettuce leaf in his mouth. We all fight over the last mozzarella stick.

It’s taken me far too long to realize my family is just as happy with omelets for dinner as the balanced array of protein, starch and vegetable I was falling down with exhaustion preparing for them each night. It’s not that the effort wasn’t appreciated; it’s just that I finally noticed the banter (and burping) was exactly the same regardless of the caliber of the meal.

The sheer width of my backside attests that I truly do love food. I just don’t want to spend precious time talking about it. Or thinking about it. OR SEEING PICTURES OF IT ON FACEBOOK…..

The truth is I don’t care if it’s a baked potato or fries on the side and I think there are far too many salad dressings to choose from. I want my dining experience to simmer with laughter. I want my meal to boil over with glasses clinking and forks dropping and knees touching. I want to pass around warm stories, not warm bread. I want to share mouth-watering moments found in every day experiences and mundane living. Like when my little guy’s Spongebob underwear showed clear through his white tee-ball pants. Now that was Delicious. Like when I discovered a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser will poof! vaporize the scratches off my fender after I’ve screeched against the garage door. Man, that was Delectable. Like when torrential downpours completely freed up my scheduled afternoon of back-to-back ball fields. What a Scrumptious gift! Like when friends are genuinely surprised at how late it is because the night just flew by. Undeniably lip-smacking.

These are my spices and the flavors I choose to savor and these are (mozzarella sticks aside) my favorite foods.

Bon appetite indeed.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in HuffPost. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone.” Her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series yet she places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements. (Next would be the home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook & @Eyerollingmom on Instagram. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here

My Famous Friend (of a friend of a friend)

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I love a good friend of a friend celebrity connection.

My friend Linda posted a photo a while back. In the picture was her cousin with his lifelong best friend – who just happens to be David Axelrod (Barack Obama’s senior advisor at the time) — and well, Obama. She had great stories about her cousin: getting personal tours of the oval office (smaller than people imagine and – did we know Obama uses JFK’s old desk?) Once he went to a Wizards/Bulls game with the President and said the entire night was electric – when Obama walked into the arena it sounded like a rock concert.

Best friends with the president’s senior advisor. Now THAT is cool.

My husband’s buddy’s brother was in Animotion, that one-hit-wonder band of the 80s. Today, every time “(you are an) Obsession” comes on, my kids will crack up and shout “Hey, it’s Jerry’s brother!” (This should surprise no one; there is no world where my kids wouldn’t be schooled in iconic 80s music.)

My former boss had two sons who grew up with Jerry O’Connell, the chunky little kid from “Stand by Me” who is now a hunky TV and B-movie star. She told warm and wonderful stories all the time: Jerry grew up eating dinner at her house, getting in trouble with her boys and today they are all still friends. I love that. I know someone who knows Jerry O’Connell. I’ve heard so many stories about him I feel like I know him, too.

My father always told us about the time he dated Rosemary Clooney. As a kid it didn’t really register as anything fantastic but now I think, wow….

Knowing somebody famous is hugely different than just meeting somebody famous. And funny, aren’t we always in a wee bit of competition to have the best brag?

My sister was once asked to dance by Chad Lowe — brother of Rob — in some Hofstra bar (the only thing I find remotely interesting about this is that at this exact moment in time, hundreds of miles away on my own college campus I happened to have a poster up in my dorm room of his way hotter brother.)

My brother-in-law used to brag that he went to college with Meg Ryan (who was known as Peggy). Oooh, what was she like? Don’t know, never hung out with her. Fail. Fizzle. No points for that one.

Both memories combined made for meh musings but thankfully, together they’re raising children off to a way better start: in his freshman year my nephew became friends with Evan Springsteen. Yes, that one. I once received a very hushed and covert call from her, whispering from her basement, “Evan Springsteen is eating … MY MEATBALLS!” Huge props for that, sis. That totally redeems the Chad Lowe bit.

Here’s my one funny story: In my early professional life I once had to spend some time with a (C-list, not-even Dancing with the Stars worthy) celebrity who was promoting her memoir — a tell-all of her hidden struggle with alcoholism. It was my first book convention, it was in Vegas, and well, I was really (really) young.

Translated, “convention” means “unlimited free alcohol” to a twenty-something.

It was bad: I had gotten in from my night out only hours before her morning book signing. I am certain I still reeked and my head was spinning but I made it through the signing. I thought I was home free as I took my seat next to her at a luncheon but right in the middle of it she totally lost it.

She couldn’t take it anymore — in a diva-like moment, she furiously demanded that the dessert cake be sent back to the kitchen because she insisted she smelled liquor in it (“Ummm, no.., that would be … your publicist…”).

I wanted to die. Sweating (rather, seeping vodka fumes) I sat motionless and silent as the restaurant staff was severely admonished.

I guess it’s probably best that I don’t know too many famous people because hello, look where all my stories would end up.

Do(uche) We Really Need to Discuss This Now?

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All I remember is that it started with sperm. There I was, frying up some egg sandwiches and before I knew what was happening, there were giggles and roars and it dawned on me that the boys were using the word sperm in their banter. Third and fifth grade. Terrific. The thing is, I probably should’ve seen it coming – just last week one came in to rat on the other that he’d just been accused of having a mangina (you know, instead of a manhood).

Joyous.

I took a breath. I can do this, I thought. I’ve done it before. A couple of years ago while driving around with my then-fifteen-year-old he referred to someone as a douche bag. (Flash-forward to today and this word has appallingly become part of the teenage vernacular, used in movies and television and sooooo not a big deal. But back then it was merely on the horizon and I was aiming to halt it.) In the best smart-ass-y voice I could muster, I asked,

“Hey, do you even know what a douche bag is?”

“No.” was his shrugged response.

“Well,” I started cheerfully, “it’s actually a bag of cleaning fluid a woman squishes up into her vagina to clean it out.” Cue in wide grin. “Cool, huh?”

He would’ve jumped out the car window had he not been temporarily struck by mortification paralysis. But I think it went well: I never heard the word come out of his mouth again.

So apparently here was my déjà vu. I had to dish out some more blunt, in-your-face reality but I was ready. I was the master. This was going to be cake. Plus, as an added bonus, I had BOTH of them right there – I wasn’t going to have to go through this twice. I looked at the two of them and began.

What I said was, “Do you even know what sperm is?”

What they heard was, “Release the Kraken!”

I spent the next twenty minutes fielding their questions…. and then extinguishing their subsequent fits of laughter at my responses. When they weren’t falling off the counter stools in hysterics they were squealing at situations and scenarios only little boy brains conjure up – mostly imagery involving hot dogs.

Good God. All this and an explanation of porn before ten in the morning.

I did my best, answered truthfully and stressed the seriousness of taking all private matters well, seriously. It’s a tough paradigm shift: Kids are exposed to so much junk in such comedic ways it’s no wonder they think every sexual scenario is out of a “Superbad” movie.

Chivalry may be dead but now modesty is on a respirator. Good times for kids.

So it was a morning for the books. And — reward for Mom getting through it — an evening for Bud Light.

For the record, the discussion didn’t end at the kitchen counter. My husband found a reason to grab my 10-year-old for a Sunday car ride and got through a much needed follow-up-father-son discussion without the added distraction of a younger brother (or – cringe — food references).

And alas, before the weekend came to a close, that crazy karma came sniffing around again.

“Mom, I have a question…..” My son’s voice trailed off when he noticed his brother within hearing distance. I gently inquired if it was a question which might be best asked in private. “I don’t know… I just don’t understand a word.”

“It’s okay, just ask.”

“What does douche mean?”

Baaaaahhhhhh!

I straightened my shoulders and flipped my hair.

I got this.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as Eyerollingmom/Tina Drakakis on Facebook, Instagram & Threads. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

You’re Number 1 (… and so are YOU, and YOU and …)

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I’ve been paying close attention to the ubiquitous catchphrase “Millennials,” which refers to the new crop of young adults who will be entering the workforce and taking over for the tens of thousands of retiring baby boomers. Born between 1980 and 1995, it seems this group has had the dubious distinction of being coddled their entire life and has subsequently spent the last two decades hearing doting parents and teachers alike insist “You’re special!” and “You’re number one!”

Funny. It turns out if kids hear something like this long enoug,h kids tends to believe it: according to the grumblings this future working class apparently has little regard for authority and worse, a less than reverent approach to protocol and procedure. Look out people: when the Millennials take over, flip flops on Fridays will be the least of their demands.

I’m becoming increasingly interested in this subject for a couple of reasons. First off, my husband’s profession is smack-dab within employee recognition and – specifically – employee retention. This oncoming cattle rush of E-Bay employees willing to take their services to the highest bidder whenever something doesn’t go their way concerns a corporate America that relies heavily on longevity and loyalty. But that’s just him and his white collar world. My main motivation for concern lies in the significant fact that I am presently nurturing two creatures that fall into this well, coddled category: yep; teenagers.

For the record, I believe my kids are far from coddled. I’d like to think I’m doing my part to keep society sane because – get a load of this: I don’t give my kids whatever they ask for — but it turns out I’m not exactly the majority. Some days I feel as if I’m swimming against a tide of teenage entitlement because absurd entitlement abounds elsewhere in their lives.

On town ball fields my kids learned to play scoreless soccer. Seriously. Did it ever occur to anyone that if kids are old enough to understand the rules of a team sport… they might also be able to count the number of times a ball gets kicked into a net? And while official play books are manned and statistics are recorded during their little league games, nope, there’s no score kept there either. Everybody plays. Everybody runs around the bases. Everybody gets a big shiny trophy at the end of the season – just for participating. For real.

I recently attended a school concert which began with not one but four vocal solos in a row. None were outstanding. At first I thought it was me; perhaps my benchmarks for preteen warbling were unrealistic (damn that dreaded “American Idol”) or worse, perhaps I’m completely tone deaf from all my screaming about chores. When I casually looked around and saw other parents with pained, confused expressions, I knew it wasn’t just me. While it was uncomfortable enough to sit through, it was more mind-boggling when the reason became clear: those teenage girls were shamelessly standing alone at a microphone simply because they had asked to. No exceptional talent was required because really, everyoneone is talented, right?

My kids have stayed after school to “finish” taking tests. They’ve also taken a test and then have re-taken it again and again until the grade is acceptable to them. Whatever happened to “time’s up/pencils down”? And where were these teachers twenty-five years ago when I was taking my Calculus final?

It may not take a village but it’s certainly going to take more than just me to get things turned around here. If I’m willing to endure round-the-clock declarations of unfairness or continuous accusations of “worst mom ever” I’d like a little support from the trenches.

I don’t need Dr. Phil; I just need other parents (and maybe the occasional coach or music teacher) to band with me and tell these kids that real life provides rewards for hard work.

And it is NOT okay to return to our homes indefinitely once college is over (God help me).

And there IS something wrong with showing up late to work.

And by the power of Thor, flip flops are always going to be wrong, wrong, wrong in a cubicle.

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Little Baby Fug

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I should have seen it coming.

I should have known.

I should have been prepared.

But why would I ever think the odds were going to tilt in favor of irony when Fate had been so kind to me before? I had tested her and tempted her on three separate occasions, and now fickle Fate was sending me a message: the well of good fortune had run dry and that was it. We were done.

So my fourth baby came out, well, ugly.

He was tiny—for us—a scrawny eight pounds compared to his robust siblings, my smallest yet. My runt. I remember calling my bestie Betsy and whispering into the phone from my hospital bed, “No… he’s really not like the others.” There was more surprise than shame in my voice, but it was okay; I could tell Betsy these things—we’re that close. Truth be told, she was the only one I did tell. We often joked that if either of us ever had an ugly baby, we’d be the kind of mother who knew it. None of this isn’t-he-beautiful-just-ignore-the-lazy-eye nonsense. We had a clue. We would know. And so I knew.

“I’m sure it’s not so bad,” she soothed across the miles. But I could tell what she was really thinking: It’s about time, bitch.

She was right. My first three kids were beautiful. Not beautiful in the “all kids are beautiful” sense of things but seriously, really beautiful. The kind of beauty that may very well garner them an extra day for a term paper. Or perhaps a cab right away. Or maybe an undeserved second interview. That kind of beauty.

I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, but boy, did I feel bad for this little guy. Everyone—everyone—notices the obviously ugly, the decidedly different sibling. They’re the stories of legends. The Cinderella stepsisters. The Ashlee Simpsons, racing to plastic surgeons to keep up with sexy sisters. The sad little Shaun Cassidys forced to belt out lame pop ditties just to measure up to teen idol brothers (who doesn’t shudder at “Da Doo Ron Ron”?) The Titos, Jermaines and La Toyas of the world. What about all those other Baldwin brothers? Anyone know any of their first names?

This baby was doomed.

“He looks just like the others!” my mother shrieked with delight. But I knew the deep, dark truth.

My oldest son, eight, was the epitome of Gap commercial cuteness. My daughter, six, was a sassy, stunning siren. My toddler, 18 months, sported delicious ringlets and smiled constantly. Was it any wonder that I’d become jaded by perfect jaw lines and bedazzled by blue eyes?

When firstborn arrived, naturally he was perfection personified (as all firstborn are). There is no scrutiny or comparison with a firstborn. Ever.

When second-born came, she was the prototype First Girl in the family. She could have been born with antlers and we’d have eaten her up all the same.

When third-born joined us I hadn’t held an infant in my arms for a stretch of four years, so it was like having a firstborn all over again (only with two little potty-trained elves running around helping me fetch things). It was bliss. Third-born could have been Rosemary’s Baby, but I was so thrilled to have him I never would’ve noticed.

This fourth time (my predetermined final time) when forced to look at three other adorable frames of reference, I noticed.

I’d been traveling a precarious road all along, waiting for the other shoe to drop because really, our family is an oddity. My husband and I absolutely should not have the kids we do. Really. My husband is Greek, Puerto Rican, Irish, geez… too many more to mention. I am Irish, German, Italian, a dash of Hungarian… you name it, and we’ve got it. We are the United Nations of genetics. Also, we are dark—and not exactly, er…shall I say, slight (visualize a chunky caricature of Gabby and Carlos from Desperate Housewives.) Yet all four spawn are miraculously light and—how about that irony again—remarkably thin. Our children turned out wrong by every account.

So I imagine it was time. I loved my littlest creation and held him tightly for his first two years as he cried and cried and cried. I’d silently question the sincerity of people when they’d remark how cute, or delightful, or lovely he was (clearly they were just being polite). And life went on. Fourth baby got toted around to school assemblies and soccer fields and play dates like all other youngest siblings—like a little piece of Samsonite.

Ah, but it turns out that Fate’s got a grand sense of humor.

Somehow, sometime, when I’d stopped paying attention, my littlest creation sort of fell into line. He became un-ugly. Today, many years into his happy little life he is as easy on the eyes as the others and (perhaps for greater irony) may very well be our standout swan.

Which makes me wonder: Was my ugly duckling actually an ugly duckling all along, from the beginning? Probably not, judging by his photos (which are naturally fewer than his siblings. Naturally, tthis is okay; it is the documented rule of birth order). And did he cry as incessantly as I remember, or was I perhaps a bit more frazzled and older and less patient to handle him? Likely. More, was I just being judgmental and shamefully hard on him? Regretfully, yes. (Paging Joan Crawford?)

But, oh, that fickle Fate. It’s funny how she works. My perfect firstborn? He’s a teen right now and sure, he’s a hottie. But let’s just say if I had a dollar for every missed homework or incomplete assignment Boy Wonder tosses into the big black hole of his life, I’d be sitting pretty right now. He is clueless beyond reason, without a strand of street smarts running through his veins. His beauty was a tradeoff: I gave him life, and he gave me a facial tic. And stunning second-born royalty is still a stunner, but her sarcasm is insufferable at times, bound to repel unsuspecting nice boys. She is destined for spinsterhood in the future if she doesn’t watch it. Third-born’s luscious ringlets are long gone, but he’s still a looker, only the laziest child I’ve ever met. Presently he’s attempting to complete the fourth grade without lifting his head off his desk. I watch the three of them and thank my lucky stars they are blessed with good looks, because I fear they will desperately, sorely need the boost in life.

And that ugly little fourth-born? He’s having the sweetest revenge of all. Not only is he smart and respectful and motivated; he is, well,if I have to admit, my sweetheart. A living doll, enjoyed and loved by all who meet him. I’m hoping he never knows my first impression of our first meeting until he’s old enough to laugh about it. And I am financially able to cover his therapy costs.

My ultimate confession to Betsy has become a running joke that continues in our lives. For years following our private exchange, she remarked in wonder every time she saw him, “Ah, here he is, Baby Quasimodo.” Her eyes twinkle with sarcasm, but I can always detect the dig in my good friend’s voice: It figures, bitch.

The Other Other-Woman

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Last night I shared a glass of wine with the other woman. We sat across from each other, not quite knowing how to proceed, not quite certain who should go first, not quite adept at morphing a previously computer-screen-correspondence into a face-to-face conversation.

I could see why the love of my life was drawn to her. We were eerily similar. I’d gathered that from our emails. We sounded alike…on cyber chat . We reasoned alike. We held the same values and morals. Yes, morals.

This was no adulteress. Oh no, not at all. This was the woman – the mother – whose home my teenaged son had run away to.

He called it moving out. But conventional wisdom would argue that throwing some clothes in a duffel bag and heading out the door without an inkling of what’s happening the next day is no such thing. He had run away.

He had had it with our outrageous rules, our absurd expectations and our irrational belief that teens should be responsible and respectful on their journey to adulthood. So — without angry fanfare or slamming doors — my oldest child left our home six days before his high school graduation.

And now, on the eve of his one-month anniversary date (breathe) of life on an air mattress, his preferred mother and I sat in my home and shared some shrugs. And Pinot.

The situation, as an understatement, was hard. Devastating, in fact. It was the ultimate in rejection for a mother: a child that doesn’t want her.

And I didn’t pretend to understand it.

I didn’t understand it because it didn’t follow the script of a Lifetime original movie. There weren’t any “I hate you”s or abuse or betrayal or Meredith Baxter Birneys. We’d been navigating the typical insanity that comes with adolescence and (insert back pat here), actually thought we were doing damn good so far. There were boundaries and consequences and forgiveness and laughter and acne. Nothing too strict, nothing too lenient. Having survived our own teenage years in the ‘80s of New York, gawd, if anyone knew about pushing the limits of youth, it was us. Fully aware of setting standards and precedents for the three kids that followed behind, my husband and I rolled with the teen madness.

Never had we imagined our rolling would come to a screeching halt.

At first we waited. He’ll be back, we reasoned. We hadn’t allowed him to take his car – surely he’d have to get back and forth to work. But no. He relied on his friends and – we’ll be dammned – they came through. So far, for an entire month. Well alrighty then. Interesting bunch, those teenagers.

The other mother contacted me immediately.

She lived a few blocks away. I explained to her my son did not get kicked out of our home, that this was all his own doing. She has two teenaged sons herself. She understood. She said she’d keep me posted on events as they occurred and thus our cordial relationship began, allowing me to become privy to more details of my son’s life than I’d even known when he was in my own home.

As far as shiteous situations go, I had stumbled into a remarkably awesome one. This other mother was sharp. Gave him an early curfew and chores and expectations. Boundaries. Consequences. Hmmm. Weirdly familiar, right?

She admitted she couldn’t come up with a logical excuse for – after four weeks – throwing him out. He was the consummate house guest: polite, obedient and respectful. In truth, she really, really liked him.

Yeah. We get that. We do, too.

She talked to him daily about the value of reconnecting with his family and told him she just couldn’t understand why he wanted to go through this without them.

Yeah. Same here.

Still, we put a positive spin on things for the sake of the kids and silently pray that he comes to his senses and (cue in cheek-slap from Cher), snaps out of it.

I haven’t sat idly by, though, hand-wringing and despondent. With the situation seemingly out of control I did what any other mother in my position would do: hauled my ass into therapy.

After a full debriefing her assessment was unsurprising: I was a reasonable person trying to reason with an unreasonable adolescent. She said that since my son was not relying on me for anything the situation was most definitely out of my control and I should let it go.

Let it go.

Let it go?

Let go of a child? (He is a high school graduate, she reminded. On paper, an adult.)

But…..but….but…..

But nothing.

I plunked down a few co-payments for a few weeks but eventually started to space out my visits. She was wonderful but hearing a therapist tell you something you already know is not exactly cost effective. My girlfriends do it for free.

So there is no happy ending to this cautionary tale, unless one looks at the (okay, almost amazing) relationship I’ve made with the other mother. We talked for hours – and not just about my son. It was obvious: having met under different circumstances, we’d likely be good friends.

She is giving him a safe environment to straighten out his head and I am giving him the freedom to figure it out.

I am without explanation as to why my son is attempting to assert his maturity in the most immature way imaginable. And it is unfathomable to me why he needs to go through this – or anything for that matter – without his family around him. And it is crushing. I won’t lie: it is the most crushing and hurtful and indescribable pain I have ever felt as a mother.

But he is a good kid and we are good parents.

I guess I know deep down he’ll be back one day.

I just wish it had been yesterday.

* * * *

Update: Somewhere in between the time this author had the courage to write this….

…and print this…..

…her seventeen-year-old returned home.

It was a long 47 days.

Ironically – it was also just as long (if not shorter) as this author’s own silent treatment to her own mother…

… when SHE was seventeen years old.

Exhale.

Creative Kitchen-ing for the Win!

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Every mom has had one of those moments: the kind where your child informs you at 10pm that two dozen cupcakes are needed at school the next day. Or that a must-be-a-long-sleeved-crisp-white shirt is needed for the holiday concert in an hour. Or that a kick-ass present is required for the sleepover that suddenly turned into a birthday party (that you’re already en route to).

I had me one of those moments this week, in the form of Third Grade International Day. Sure, I saw the paper come home requesting culinary delights of the United Nations. As is typical, I quickly scanned it, decided it was a no-go, and did what every other mom would do (okay, maybe not every but definitely my real friends): immediately forgot all about it. Anyway, when my son asked if he could bring something in specific to “our heritage” he got my best “Hmmm, we’ll see” response, which of course in parenting always translates to “I hope you’ll forget about this notice as fast as I’ve tossed it.”

Curiously, what his eight-year-old ears heard was something along the lines of “Sure, I’m certain if I can find a Greek cooking class in the next three days I’ll be able to bring a killer baklava.” As if.

The matter was quickly dismissed. By me. Alone. Of course it was.

The following week he came bounding off the bus with excited stories of pierogies and sour cream sticks and other exotic foods he’d tasted that day. What? Oh, right, International Day. “So what am I bringing in tomorrow?” he asked, eyes shining.

Karma being the hilarity it typically is, it was one of those moments in one of those weeks: I had not even a single egg in the house. Actually, I was sorta looking forward to seeing which kid would be the victor in the showdown of the final bowl of milk for their cereal dinner. Yep. It was the dreaded Food Shopping Eve, the night where resilient families find out just how long a sleeve of Ritz crackers will sustain them.

I had nothing and there was no reasoning with him. He didn’t want to hear about exhaustion, or coupons for the next day’s sale items, or even the slightly lame excuse that – internationally speaking – we were kind of a mutt, so each nationality pretty much canceled the others out.

Here’s where creativity saves you.

I reasoned that the best way of classifying our Greek-Puerto-Rican-German-Italian-and-Irish heritage was to simply go with an All-American dish.

“Brownies?” his tears began drying and I detected a slight smile.

No. Sorry babe, no eggs. Not until tomorrow.

“Tacos?” he lifted one brow. (Funny that he’d think a house without eggs might in fact have beef, cheese and produce at its disposal. Funnier that he sees tacos as All-American. I like the way this kid thinks….)

“Better than that,” I winked.

So the next morning he woke early to help me pop open a lone tube of biscuits. We masterfully rolled and twisted them around the hot dogs we’d sliced into skinny pieces.

Together we concocted the most awesomely amazing All-American-Pigs-in-Blankets that third grade class had ever seen.

They were devoured before the Pledge of Allegiance.

Breakfast of champions.

I know the school year’s winding down but I am really going to start paying better attention to letters from school. Next year. Really, I promise.

A Fleeting Fame

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Disclaimer: My experience on a reality television show, while seemingly a lifetime ago, still makes for a good story. Since there are no surly teenagers nearby me to screech, “Nooooooo….not again, Mom!” I’m going to share it Yes, it was a loooong time ago, and yes, I believe Paige Davis may have fallen into a black hole since then, but it was at the height of popularity when our “Trading Spaces: $100 Grand!” two-hour special aired. And yes, it was (high-pitched-soprano-voice) AWESOME.

A long time ago in a career far, far away I got into a little skirmish with Geraldo. I was a publicist, he was, well, Geraldo, and the whole he-said/she-said thing landed on the front page of Daily Variety. There it was, in black and white: my name, my title and my quote. My quote! Hence, my very first brush with fame. While it was relatively small-scale (I mean seriously, how many people – especially those of us on the East coast – actually read Variety?), it was a professional feather in my cap that tickled me ridiculously and caused my boss to seethe. Naturally, I faxed the story to everyone I knew (this being the time when Geraldo was a media presence, of course there was no e-mail), and held onto it for years.

Fast-forward a dozen years, and with the help of a little reality-television show, I found myself in the throes of celebrity again, only this time in a brave new world. Plucked from obscurity, I was given a spotlight of national attention and enough local publicity to humble a politician. Still, it had never occurred to me that along with my fifteen minutes of fame came a little thing called, ummm, opinion. Have I mentioned that everybody’s got one – along with a computer? Had I known that I could evoke such passionate opinions from people I most certainly would have spent a lot less time worrying about the dungaree shorts I chose to wear for the filming of my television stint.

On the show’s website, throughout its wildly popular message boards were beautiful sentiments from virtual strangers: Raves (loved the show!). Cheers (loved you!). Kudos (congratulations!). But alas, like the envious boss who didn’t get acknowledgment, sprinkled throughout these well-wishes was an eye-opening array of not-so-happy campers. At first it was funny. (Okay, at first I didn’t spot my name). But after continued reading (equate it to picking at dried glue on your fingers – when does one actually stop?) it became mildly horrifying.

“Get off the computer,” my husband pleaded. I was addicted.

“Did you read what this guy wrote? That is so WRONG!” He’d simply shake his head. He knew I had crossed over.

According to one eagle-eyed viewer, I was apparently wealthy, therefore rendering me unworthy of the good fortune bestowed on my family. (This perception usually draws great fits of laughter from my family, close friends and the checkout clerk at the receiving end of my mountain of coupons each week.) One anonymous viewer called me arrogant. Arrogant? I won a big prize, had the ever-present camera catch my gratuitous tears, and nearly died from the excitement of the whole experience. Good God. Then there was a woman who ranted to all the other message-board posters that I made her want to barf. Barf? In fairness, I was completely aware that the humidity that plagued filming had turned my hair into a Farrah-esque flashback for most my age, but barf? That was uncalled for.

One of the show’s producers warned, “Oh, by the way, don’t go onto the message boards. Those people are crazy.” Yeah, we got that. Too late.

My love/hate relationship with fame has left me far more understanding of the price that is paid by bona-fide celebs, and not just the flash-in-the-pan variety like myself. It makes me realize how often I’ve become part of a heated discussion about one of the delightfully colorful cast of characters on the “Who Wants to Survive the Average Joe Millionaire” shows I tend to gravitate to on any given night. It is with heavy heart that I think of all the times I purchased a steamy tabloid solely to gobble up the dirt that poor Britney had to endure this past week. Now that I know how it feels to be utterly slammed, I am, of course, repentant.

“Were you on that show?” The hairstylist’s grin has me marked as she escorts my daughter to a chair. My nod is sheepish, but my alert mind is racing: Oh, the bad press that could come out of this! Is my hair combed? Is my holiday-induced weight gain obvious? How quickly can she call the newspaper to report a bad tip?

In the end, the five-dollar tip (for a ten dollar child’s haircut) is hidden in my fist as I go to thank her and depart.

“I loved it,” she giggles, and turns away.

For what it’s worth, I was a pretty good tipper before all this.

Why Xmas Cards Need Punchlines

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My “New Year’s” card from a few years ago. Too crazed to pull off a Xmas shoot, I bribed & threatened to get this shot. My crew STILL holds a grudge … can’t imagine why .

I have chosen to NOT send out Christmas cards this year. Again. Last year I just couldn’t muster up the desire and the year before I thought it would simply be a nice respite.

Whaddaya know. I think I may have stumbled onto a new favorite tradition.

I’ve spent many a snarky blog mocking Christmas letters (and – why don’t we simply put me on the express track to Hell – Christmas photos as well. Come on, you know you do, too. I just say it out loud. Shrug.)

But I really do love my idea of the Why-Can’t-We-All-Just-Be-A-Wee-Bit-Honest? anti-Christmas letter. I wish they all sounded like mine:

I’d say with blatant bragging that my kids didn’t turn into trolls throughout the year and were still, in fact, good looking. (Naturally if No-Shave November didn’t find my son looking like Wolverine I could’ve secured proof of this over Thanksgiving weekend when we were all together but no such luck.)

I’d reveal that I am secretly thrilled when my oldest son is at college … because his proclivity to starting his day at 3:30 to do errands when he’s home makes my hair fall out.

I’d express delight that my college-bound, environmentally impassioned daughter is poised to save the world one dolphin or blade of grass at a time … yet would rather hug a tree than any of her brothers … and that kinda sorta makes me mental.

I’d report that my middle-school sons are doing well in their school and sporting endeavors … but that their inability to decode and decipher common phrases like “Take you shoes off before coming in” and “Hang up that towel” worries me immeasurably.

I’d boast about my husband’s year of health and weight loss (again, not really a loss when it’s found by someone else, eh?) but to even the score I would definitely get in a few digs about my perpetually broken kitchen pendant light. I’d then probably put it in print that I am holding firm on getting my downstairs painted this spring (and that this task will far take precedence over – pick one – a new snow blower, lawnmower and/or Patriots season tickets. So there.)

I’d ramble on about our family vacation to Disney with a great group of friends and then embarrassingly admit I lost my youngest son within 5 minutes of entering the happiest place on Earth. Yes. Party of 14 people. Lost child. 5 flippin minutes.

I’d divulge funny details about my job (that I love) in an alternative middle/high school (Really? I’m complaining about wet towels at home? Really???) but then I’d share the far from humorous reality of having to keep the doors locked there now.

Scary times.

It’s best to just remember that our lives – and our livelihoods — are merely temporary.

Why not laugh a little and focus on the daily, smaller smiles because really — one day real soon I may be missing those wet towels on the floor, right?

My family is healthy and my life is full of love and friends and laughter. (And recycling. Lots and lots of recycling because – haven’t you heard — my daughter has turned into the Conservation Nazi.)

So, as I sit here watching “The Sound of Music” (singing every word to “Climb Every Mountain” because, my gaaaaawd, Mrs. Cazzaza made us sing it in elementary school, I wish everyone the same:

Health, love, and (of course) recycling.

And laughter.

Lots and lots of laughter.

Merry Christmas everyone!

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College Kid Heading Home? Release the Kraken!

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My daughter, a college freshman, comes home this week for her winter break. This means my emotions — like every other college parent’s – are running the gamut of YayyyyyyyyyyOoooooooohhhhhNoooooooooo.

Cue in collective nods from those who have danced this dance before me.

She’s had four months of independent living, coming and going at leisure, not having to answer to anyone and doing whatever in the world she feels like at any time she feels like it. These typical rites of college passage no doubt will make her transition back to home a nightmare of unparalleled proportions.

Guess I’d better get my thick-skin-suit out of storage.

We had a tiny bit of friction during the long Columbus Day weekend. We had a bit more (cough) differences of opinion during Thanksgiving. But let’s be real here. A few argumentative moments here and there are nothing compared to the barrage of discontent that will fester over five weeks.

Five looooooooonnnnngggggg weeks of

… ridiculous rules (because ‘don’t start a load of laundry and then immediately leave the house for twelve hours’ is …unreasonable?)

… crazy curfews (because bars can kick people out soon after midnight but parents shouldn’t?)

… and outrageous expectations to be – I don’t know – an active member of this family (because popping in for an occasional meal or – dare to dream – coming out of a bedroom for more than fifteen minutes at a time is … irrational?).

Yes, we are all sorts of looney over here. Poor kids – it’s just like West Point under this roof.

I know, I tell her, I remember. My mother and I drove each other nuts every winter AND every summer I was home. I keep telling my daughter that, like it or not, it is the way of the world. That it is something every college student since the beginning of time will go through. Naturally my sage sentiments fall on deaf ears. She tries to reason …

It’s not fair.

She’s responsible.

She’s intelligent.

She makes good choices.

(All true, I might add. But then she’ll throw in some crazy statistic like …)

She’s the ONLY one with a curfew

(or, worse)

No one else’s mother even cares what they do or what time they came home.

(No one?)

Nope. Not one.

I then call balderdash and bam! we’re right back to a Saturday Night Smackdown. It’s sure to be a tough time but I’m ready. My litany of retorts isn’t very creative but it’s plentiful.

This is not your dorm room.

Get used to it.

It is what it is.

I felt this way, too.

Because I love you.

Because I said so.

I do trust you.

It’s only about safety.

I understand.

I get it, I really get it.

and so on…

and so on..

But nothing is changing.

A mom is a mom is a mom.

Evidently we shall never see eye to eye on this but I imagine we’re not supposed to. I just hope she doesn’t sulk away her vacation like Greta Grump and enjoy some of the time while she’s with us.

The house, while still busy and loud and messy … is a brighter place when she is here. I so don’t want to be in Def-con 12 Battle Mode during the holidays. I kinda just want to watch movies under fuzzy blankets with her … and do a little shopping … and share some late lunches … and well, just sorta be with her. She’s eighteen and the years are moving her into adulthood faster than I can finagle. FortheloveofGod, she’s talking about Africa next year. I just keep shaking my head. And catching my breath some days.

Maybe, just maybe, she’ll go a little easy on the old lady and go with the curfew flow and pick up her room every few days.

Who knows. It could happen.

Santa, you reading this?