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!

Somebody, PLEASE Shelf That Elf Idea

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* In 2009 the #@*&!!! Elf on a Shelf turned up in my home — through no fault of my own — and I tried to warn the world about its evils. All these years later that little #@&!!! is thriving … as are the little boys who eventually grew up to follow the memes and do dasterdly things to it. Spoiler: we all survived (well, obviously not all of us…)

My sister is a kind and generous soul and I love her. I really do.

I just want to kill her.

Well maybe not kill her but definitely hurt her really, really bad. Maybe a lengthy pinch of the little fleshy stuff right under her armpit. You know, just a little something for emphasis.

Swept up in the magic of Christmas, she thought it would be super cool to give me a first class ticket on the Elf on the Shelf bandwagon. Apparently she thought the whole gimmick sounded delightfully joyous and heartwarming for my boys this holiday season. (Quick version: a book and elf arrive in festive packaging. This magic elf then watches the kids’ behavior each day until Christmas. He hides throughout the house and each day the kids wake up, search for him and whisper their holiday desires into his little ear.) Joy to the world!

I get it. on the surface it seems very cute indeed. The thing is, my boys are not *little kids (9 & 10 with older siblings — you get my drift?) and well, they’re BOYS. They now wake up in Spartacus mode – a competition of the fittest to find it first – before they resume wrestling and beating the spit out of each other (like most mornings). It really has just given them another reason to tussle before the school bus.

Still, we’ve been dutifully going along with this.

Here’s MY problem with our newest holiday tradition (she says forlornly, hoping they’ll misplace the box next year): it’s making me a total wreck. I can’t even say how many dark, cold mornings my eyes have flown open with the realization that I didn’t move the creepy little elf doll to a new spot before turning in for bed. It’s worse than forgetting the Tooth Fairy was supposed to come (there’s no throwing it in the crumpled sheets with feigned, “Oh THERE it is!” nonsense). This is serious. And has to happen EVERY night. I have lost so much sleep because of it I look awful (which hello, is not going to help me in the unspoken Who-Looks-Better? contest when my sister and I gather for the holidays).

So yes, I am here to warn others: this becomes a full-bodied commitment the moment that silly book is read aloud to your little Santa-seekers.

FortheloveofGod, pay no attention to the window displays at Borders and just keep walking.

Go back to stringing popcorn and find other holiday traditions that won’t put bags under your eyes.

I’m no Scrooge but sorry, I just can’t help it.

I’m tired (from lack of sleep).

And cranky (from running out of hiding spaces).

And I haven’t thought of anything yet for paybacks for my sister…

but I will.

Oh, ho, ho, hope she’s not reading this because oh yeah I will.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Boston Globe & 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 fave collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Surviving the Santa Sucker Punch

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My yearly disclaimer: because of the universal chord it strikes, I have declared this my very own “Yes, Virginia” tradition and continue to publish it each year, complete with updates. Ho, ho, ho, my friends!

Show me a parent who’s a little wigged out by the inevitable birds-and-bees talk with their child and I’ll show you a parent who hasn’t even thought about – let alone attempted – the Santa Claus talk. Heads up: nothing – nothing – prepares you for that ambush while innocently watching a sitcom. Give me reproduction or Heather Has Two Daddies any day of the week, thank you very much.

“You guys buy the stuff, right?” It came from my oldest, an 11-year-old who is blissfully naïve, heartwarmingly immature, and constantly questioning why he can’t use words like crap. He IS in sixth grade, you know. He held his newly formed Christmas list.

“Why do you ask?” my husband’s panicked eyes pleaded for me to jump right in at any time. I was too busy weighing the odds. I was sensing that the question held an honest desire for truth, yet I couldn’t be certain a bluff wasn’t involved.

Last year I was confident the belief was still there. My friends and family couldn’t accept that my wide eyed middle schooler dutifully wrote his letter to Santa without question. Sure, there was talk on the school bus and there were kids with older siblings and yes, there was a slight wane in his interest in gathering around to watch those goofy Christmas shows from the 70s (Burger Meister Meister Burger, anyone?). Still, I knew the dreamlike image of a man in a red suit rousing him from sleep (at what – five years old?) was embedded in his memory. I could tell there was something in his eyes that wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know.

My husband’s cough seemed forced. “Well what have you heard?” (Wasn’t that always a good parental deflect?)

It was as we’d expected. Damn those kids on the bus with older brothers. Ugh, what to do next? First, we had to consider the sibling factor. We’ve got three more coming down the pike and quite frankly, I love a household full of innocence and wonder. It’s magical primarily because it’s, well, fleeting. Could it be over already? Second, I wasn’t entirely sure he could pull off a covert mission of betrayal to the brothers he still chased around with swords and the sister he lived to torment. This couldn’t be a good thing.

Sensing our concern, he pointed out that he stopped believing in the Easter Bunny a long time ago (because come on now, a bunny?) and he still keeps that from the little ones. And that he’d gotten the “other” talk almost two years ago and never spills on that, either. Good point. So why was this so much harder?

It’s simply a door that closes on childhood that just blatantly makes us sad. It’s a milestone that isn’t measured in pencil marks on a doorframe, can’t be captured on film, and doesn’t exactly make our lives easier like some other benchmarks. Honestly, sometimes we can’t wait for them to get just a little bit older. We anxiously await the first hot dog that is eaten with a bun. We secretly rejoice when swing pumping is officially mastered, allowing us a few more luxurious minutes on a playground bench instead of in a sandpit wearing sandals. Some might even want to dance naked when their youngest FINALLY starts to toilet train (okay maybe that’s just me). These are milestones indeed and we look forward to them. But some rites of passage sure do stink.

While we openly dread learner’s permits and after-prom parties, we tend to forget about the smaller life moments that affect our kids – and us — before acne: Their first order off the adult menu that is actually eaten in its entirety; The way their new big teeth completely change the look of their faces, quietly erasing the baby-ness from their features; The first time you notice – really notice – that their legs are so much longer since the last time you seemed to look. It’s these times that grip our hearts and keep us frozen just for a moment. Just slight, inconspicuous reminders that calendar pages keep turning and candles on cakes keep taking up more space on the frosting.

“Yes, it’s us” my husband blurts out. Subtlety obviously isn’t his strong suit. I probably would’ve gone a softer route but I admired his zeal. The last thing you want in life is your kid being made fun of by a bunch of kids on a school bus.

“And it was me in the Santa suit” he spat. (Whoa, easy there, Tonto, give the kid a minute to digest….)

It was a nod and a matter-of-fact shrug that acknowledged the news. He handed me his Christmas list and looked spy-like over both shoulders, “Mom, I really don’t need #8 on my list. You can cross it off.” Another check of the perimeter and then a wink and a whisper, “It’s kind of expensive.”

Well break my heart in half and bring on the acne. I’ll be dammed if that kid doesn’t get #8 this year. Maybe he’ll even get two.

* * * *

2009 Update: that blissfully naive 11-year-old is now an awesomely out-of-touch 16-year-old hoping Santa brings him (pick one) a car, I-Phone or mountain of cash. He’s obviously still blissfully naive but he’s kept our secret like he promised he would.

2010 Update: that blissfully naïve 11-year-old is now filling out college applications (sigh…. we just don’t speak of this topic without also employing the phrase “God willing”). His sharp-as-a-tack 11-year-old brother (irony?) keenly keeps his Christmas desires to a financial possibility. And watching from the wings is an equally suspicious 9-year-old, who really wants to believe…..but……since the Tooth Fairy bailed on three straight nights…..is having some…..doubts……

2011 Update: that blissfully naive 11-year-old is presently enlisted in the United States Air Force Reserves as an Airman. The only thing he’s asking for from Santa this year is his mom’s meatballs (she, in turn, is begging for an endless supply of L’Oreal grey coverage). My teen diva — surprisingly — has nary a thing on her list. She’s got a job, a boyfriend and a 1994 Nissan with roll-up windows so life is pretty close to perfect right now. My sharp ‘lil tween, fresh into his first foray of romance, is desperately seeking some Old Spice Swagger under the tree to keep him smelling gooooood. And my baby…..my ten-year-old baby…… is ready to shout from the highest rooftop that HE, too, knows THE TRUTH about all this nonsense and HAS known for a VERY LONG TIME. And thinks he should get an I-Phone. Because — he insists — 10 is the new 15.

2012 Update: that blissfully naïve 11-year-old is now a college freshman, who really just wants to sleep in his own bed awhile before next semester begins. I know. How and when in the world did that happen? The weird thing: our countdown is finally up. My youngest baby – who was in diapers when this story began – is now a point guard on his basketball team and wears a bigger shoe than his mom. Never again will I have a blissfully naïve — or any other for that matter– 11-year-old in my family. Some days, when I least expect it — I won’t lie — it just makes me really, really sad.

REALLY sad.

2013 Update: Nowadays the “children” in my home consist of 2 young adults and 2 ever-growing, ever-eating teens. When we recently sat down to Thanksgiving dinner — when college classes and freshmen football and work schedules and every other life commitment of six people all miraculously meshed together for one day — I had a moment when I believed Santa came early. A happy and laughter-infused occasion, I wanted to freeze the moment in time. It was a little magical.

Now more than ever before I am acutely aware of time passing quickly. Unbearably and unfairly quickly.

Because of this, I look for a little magic all the time.

Not surprisingly, It’s always there.

2024 Update: Well, well, well, how quickly the game can change! My firstborn little prince, the very subject of this favorite memory of mine, now has a firstborn little prince of his own. My updates will end here, as I turn on the kettle to settle in and watch a new generation of magic transpire right before my eyes.

Happiest of holidays, friends! Enjoy the mini moments that will stay front & center in your heart for always!

Friendvy

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One of my very best friends just received a tremendous promotion, catapulting her into a very high, very-six-figure salary range. I learned of this after she tossed me a perfect size-six pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps that she’d just received as a Christmas present from her boss.

“Here, take these, she bought the wrong size and I’m too embarrassed to tell her.”

While I inwardly chuckled at the thought of vacuuming in them – because really, where was I going in them? – I couldn’t help but notice the card of the Neiman Marcus personal shopper still in the box. Obviously had she returned them her boss would never have known. Hmmm…was I to suspect a little pity-present was happening here?

While I love her and couldn’t be more thrilled for her, it’s no surprise that such great news has caused me to reflect on my own personal state of affairs. Professionally, we worked together for a number of years (okay, truthfully, I hired her). Socially, we did happy hours. A lot. When I left our profession to begin raising a family she was beneath my middle management level, but in the past few years her ascent up the ladder has been both exciting and troublesome for me. My feelings fluctuate between “You go girl!” and “Hey, wait a minute, couldn’t that – shouldn’t that – be me?”

Making the decision to become a stay-at-home mother is one of toughest choices any woman will ever have to make, and granted, it isn’t for everyone. But standing by and watching a former colleague crash through the glass ceiling is pretty profound by any standards.

Foregoing a corporate career is not something I regret, but there are some amenities that I miss occasionally. Recognition is the biggie. I take my job very seriously and may do it exceptionally (er, most days), but not much gets noticed on a daily basis. On my best days, beds get made, kids get fed and I’m wearing make-up. On my worst, bills get paid (really) late, yesterday’s make-up will do, and there’s cereal for dinner. With reactions like “Captain Crunch? Cool!” my family clearly does not differentiate between my stellar or stinking days. There’s no promotion waiting down the pike for me, and no one’s going to take me out to lunch for acing the vomit virus that befell my toddler throughout the night.

It is a bitter, bitter pill that is swallowed each and every day. And there are constant daily reminders that the playing field is uneven. Routine phone calls from my husband throughout the day can set me off: out of nowhere I will suddenly become incensed that I must pick up his dry cleaning or bring in the garbage cans from the street. Do it yourself, dammit! I want to scream. Or during the course of midday check-in if I’m asked what I’ve been doing all morning I will stifle the urge to erupt into sarcasm (Scrubbing the effin’ toilets— what else would I be doing with a master’s degree?)

I am certainly not the first woman to question a life choice and I’ll be far from the last to complain about it. But as each year passes I just can’t help but feel the pangs of jealousy and insecurity bubble within me when the passing calendar months seem to mock me: Hello, February! As of today, you have now been home exactly the amount of years you commuted to work. Or worse, Greetings April, at the start of next week you have officially been OUT of work twice as long as you were actually IN work. Still worse, Happy Birthday August, now that your oldest child is a teenager, the suits in the back of your closet will forever be Halloween costumes.

Envy comes and goes for me. Some days I want to be thinner, blonder, tanner, healthier, even more organized than a friend appears. But some days I don’t care about any of that stuff at all. For the most part I am confident and self-assured. Why is it, then, that I always seem to care about my worth? And why must my worth be measured in terms of a fat paycheck or a great designer suit? That alone angers me more than being asked to make a meatloaf.

Not surprisingly, all my driving from schools to doctors to playing fields to play dates certainly allows time for introspection, and I believe a little jealousy is healthy for friends. It offers opportunities for genuine wake-up calls. While my friend’s lawn is looking rather lush right now, reflection has a way of putting things into perspective. When she tells me how much her heart hurts because she hasn’t seen her baby boy in two days because of work, I believe her completely because I know. And when I nonchalantly remark that I’m really not that busy with four kids and would love to take on some freelance work to help her out if she’s swamped, she pretends not to hear the desperation in my voice because she knows, too. Friends have that way of knowing.

Trading in my blue jeans for nicer clothes would be great, and finally having some disposable income would be even greater. But would I trade in my so-old- I-can’t-remember-where-it-came-from coffee mug for a fancy cardboard cup? Could I give up the sheer decadence of driving a child to school in my pajamas? Would I be able forego a Happy Meal for an expense-account lunch? Oh yeah. One day, for sure. Just not yet. For now, on the days when I am immersed in macaroni and cheese and picking Legos out of every hidden crevice in my couch, I am going to remain insanely jealous of my friend.

And then I’m going to make myself feel better by wearing my Manolos to the supermarket and wondering what my friend and I will get for Christmas next year.

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

The Thinking Girl’s Thong

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Look, Mom.” My 13-year-old daughter’s eyes shone with a sort of mischief as she called me in from the hallway. I stood in her doorway and watched as she opened her top drawer and proceeded to hold up the teeniest, tiniest thong I’d ever seen. Momentarily halted (“DON’T TASE ME, BRO!”), I just blinked. I’m assuming my face froze unnaturally (or maybe I just dropped the laundry basket, I can’t remember) because she added quickly, “Don’t worry, I got it on sale.” Good God. How was my head supposed to explode off my neck when she was following my cardinal rule? I drew a breath, nodded and did what any other mom would do: turned on my heel and left. I needed a mom moment. For sure.

It’s not that I feel seventh grade is entirely too early for thongs (I do), and it’s not that I don’t particularly see the need for invisible panty lines in middle school (I don’t). The bigger issue, as I see it, is the undeniable and intrinsic empowerment of a thong. Any female that’s ever donned one knows there’s a hell of a lot more going on than invisible panty lines. It’s as if there’s a secret sexual revolution going on in your pants. I guess I wasn’t expecting a thong—and everything that comes with it — in middle school and worse–– from her.

She’s hip. She gets it (only mothers of teenagers who don’t get it fully understand this phrase. Trust me, my eldest teenager, a boy, does not get it. That’s an entirely different article…). But my savvy, sassy daughter? She’s confident. And reflective. And beautiful. Not beautiful in the kum-ba-ya sense that “all kids are beautiful,” but beautiful enough that our friends nod knowingly and offer “yeah, good luck with that” condolences or “got the shotgun ready?” inquiries whenever she whisks through the room. The truth is she doesn’t need a thong. I only wish she knew that.

My daughter might disagree (quite loudly, I imagine) but I happen to think I’m a fairly cool mom. My hair’s not stuck in a time warp, I tend to favor high heels with just about anything and I’m incredibly adept at the muffin-top-camouflage. Still, even the coolest parent will grimace when their baby girl wants to be sexy. I’m not a soapbox-standing mom who’s going to blame the demise of teenage morals on MTV or say the world’s going to hell in a handbasket because some emaciated Barbie traded her bikini top for peanut butter on Survivor. I know sex is everywhere we turn, but I also know I’ve instilled some pretty good values into my little girl’s head. So why the sudden need for the inner strength of sexuality?

Having been a teenager myself, I remember the gradual ascent of provocative dress. In junior high, my Nautical Blue eyeliner was smuggled into the roller rink undetected in my Jordache pocket and was wiped clean off my face before pick up hours later. In high school, weekend club-hopping called for white anklets and cotton-candy-colored pumps paired with denim mini skirts (Hello… Long Island in the ’80s? I was far from alone). I understand the glorious burst of self-esteem that comes from feeling sensual. But the image of a sexy pink string just visible over the tiny waistband of my daughter’s jeans just might send me over the edge. This is so not Nautical Blue eyeliner.

My inability to come up with an intelligent (or any, for that matter) response was eating at me. Clearly this was some type of mother-daughter milestone that shouldn’t be dismissed with some dropped laundry. I fretted for hours while my daughter easily resumed her life, humming effortlessly without noticing the elephant in the room (the irony being that our particular elephant was the size of a Band-Aid). If she felt the need to be secretly sexy, I didn’t want to deny her the nourishment that her self-image might need at this particular moment in adolescence. At the same time, I didn’t want to send her father to the emergency room should he catch a glimpse of it for the first time one night at Chili’s.

Right before I turned in for bed, I noticed her light was still on (of course it was; parents of teenagers already know their children turn into vampires after their 12th birthday. I haven’t stayed up past my two older kids since the season finale of Lost). She looked up at me, questioningly. Here was our big moment. I cleared my throat.

“The thong?” I asked plainly. It was as if she had to remember.

“Yeah?” She seemed unaffected, like I was inquiring about chorus practice or where she’d left my curling iron.

“If I ever see it, I will take a scissor to it.”

She didn’t skip a beat and went back to her textbook. “Got it.”

And that was that.

I imagine June Cleaver might have spent a bit more than 11 seconds on the entire interaction, but I know my point got across. Some things work best when hidden. And some feelings of empowerment are meant to be savored—privately.

Update: Today, many moons later, this teen is a self-assured, intelligent, independent and successful young adult. Was it the thong? Was it the textbook? Probably a little of both. xoxo

* * * * *

On Being a (Pretty Good) Mom (Sometimes)

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In the hopes my children will never read this (or at the very least, lose interest midway through and click off like they usually do), I’ll make the mother of all confessions (no pun intended): at times I am not a great mom.

Now … It’s not a tragic scenario by any means. I’ve never lost a kid at the mall (which, I might add, instantly places me in a winner’s circle without my sister), but I have been known to lose track of my ten-year-old’s last shower. And I suspect that if Children’s Services ever caught wind of the actual number of times my kids’ sheets are changed, well, there might be some action taken.

But so far, to date (she said, knocking wood) none of my kids have a probation officer. To quote Michael Buble, I’m feeling good.

Still, I’ve got some dirty diaper secrets my kids would have a field day with — especially the next time I’m ragging about a low B in Spanish.

I have signed homework sheets that I never really checked.

I’ve feigned sleep when I heard a screaming/puking/sneaking-in-past-curfew kid in the middle of the night just to allow my husband the opportunity to fly out of bed like a rocket and deal with it.

I’ve had the television entertain my little ones for hours at a time, just to talk on the phone a little longer or get my house clean. And those wicked violent video games that are rumored to melt brain cells? Let’s just say we take our chances.

I will say without shame that – until they’ve been old enough to realize it – I have skipped pages of bedtime stories.

I have sometimes not enforced regular teeth brushing with my toddlers because, I reason, they’re just going to fall out anyway.

And yes, I have driven past the library only to hear a tiny voice in the backseat say in wonder, “Hey, I remember that place – I think I was there once.”

My err, missteps have continued as my kids have gotten older.

I scoop wet towels off various floors and toss them in the dryer with a fabric sheet for days at a time before washing them.

I cut off my kids’ cell service the minute I cannot withstand one more minute of backtalk … and then forget to pick them up because I haven’t heard from them.

My cringiest moment: not just getting drunk at a neighborhood party but getting drunk at a neighborhood party that was being videotaped as a DVD gift to our family on the eve of our departure moving out of said neighborhood. Hey, look at Mom! (laughlaughlaughlaughlaugh) Good grief. I think the*movers must have *lost that darn DVD player…. oh well!

I have to admit, some of my best Mom Moments are a little unorthodox. For instance, I keep my cell phone charger in my underwear drawer and make sure my kids know it. Why? Because should it go missing – like all chargers do – I want my kids – especially my boys – to know they’d be fishing around through my panties in order to get to it.

I still haven’t ordered my daughter’s prom dress because she still hasn’t cleaned her room. And that was our deal – that it had to be Mom Clean.

And I’ve changed the locks on one particular occasion to make a rebellious teen know for damn sure that I was completely, unquestionably, irrevocably done with his nonsense.

But I have to admit, it’s not hopeless.

I’m pretty sure that for every really (really) lousy thing I do (or, in the case of the sheets, don’t do), I make up for it in other ways. For instance, I kiss my kids. A lot. And I tell them I love them — all the time. The words are spoken so often that I now possess three sons in various stages of development who actually say it back to me: in front of their friends, over their shoulders as they’re scooting out the door, and (yes, sir) when they’re mad at me.

One time, when it dawned on me that my ornery ‘tween was attempting to become an ornery ‘tween Bedroom Mole, I demanded impromptu hug practices and made him stand locked in an embrace with me until he smiled. Got him every time. Whatever it takes.

My home is extremely dusty at times (here comes a pat on the back from nobody-cares-about-your-undone-chores-Oprah; you know, spoken as if she’s one of us) and my inability to remember details makes it impossible for me to recall the name of the last antibiotic any of my kids were prescribed.

But I know I’m a pretty good mom regardless. I watch my kids all the time. Not in the “Get back here, a stranger’s going to steal you!” kind of way, but in a fascinated, still-can’t-believe-they’re-mine way. A profound failure in keeping baby books, I do, however, try to write down both wonderful and ordinary things about our daily lives. When I noticed my little guy’s SpongeBob underwear clear through his little white baseball pants during his very first tee-ball game, I jotted it down. It was without question the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

And when my toddler loudly pointed out during an extremely crowded Easter mass that “Mommy, look, they all drink wine like you do at home!” much as I wanted to die, I wrote that down, too.

Nowadays I don’t have to write much down since I can immediately promote their perfections and pitfalls on (ta da!) blogs and Facebook.

Life’s too short to dwell on dirty sheets. Thanks, Oprah.

Kids make you crazy. But when they’re in the back seat of a Suburban giggling over the stupidest of stupid bad-gas jokes, they make you giggle, too. And every now and then when you’re ready to lock yourself in the bathroom for just five more minutes before your head explodes off your neck, they’ll do something unexpected and delightful to make you unlock that door.

When they were little, when they’d hear Barry White come out of the speakers they’d seek me out (“Mom, it’s your soooooooong!”) and spontaneously dance with me in our kitchen. How’s that for an upper?

Now that they’re older and (gulp) out in public without me, I’ll get the mother of all compliments (again, no pun intended) when I least expect it, sometimes from complete strangers:

You’ve got great kids.

I’m thinking a terrible mom would never be able to pull that off.

So yes, I’ll be keeping my phone charger in my underwear drawer, thankyouverymuch. Sometimes I know what I’m doing. Sometimes.

***

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!)