Author Archives: Tina Drakakis

Unknown's avatar

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!

In Memoriam: Waving Goodbye to Resolutions

Leave a reply

I overheard an *expert (of what I couldn’t say) on a morning show the other day. This being the week between Christmas and New Year’s, the program was filled with pre-recorded, blathery end-of-year stuff.  Round-ups, Best-Ofs, Top-Grossings blah-blah blah.  But I did hear one statement and it’s stuck with me.  The mystery expert said focusing so much on a new year and making grand resolutions only indicates that you’re considering the previous year a failure, essentially listing all the things, goals and good intentions that weren’t done.

I liked that.

I think it’s fairly common to do a personal year in review assessment and get a little bummed out at all the negative things that sprung up.  I was definitely headed in that direction.

So many amazing and wonderful and awesome and fun times happen throughout the year yet we get to December and only focus on the weight gain or the people that don’t like us anymore or an unfulfilling job or the books we didn’t read. Why is it easier to cling to the bad stuff?  Maybe because it’s the ugly stuff that keeps us up at night. It’s so, so wrong.

We’ve got to allow the good stuff to linger longer.  Keep that dopamine flowing, people! 

I’m going to start here.  I’m turning my resolutions into respect.

My resolution of I’m going to write more this year (I only wrote five original pieces this year; for a creative soul, this is crushingly disappointing) is changing to Girl, you only wrote five things this year and one of those was nationally published!  That’s 20% of all your shttttt!  You go!

My resolution of I’m going to get to the gym more is changing to Girl, the weather was so great this week you hit your 10k steps every day without ever having to walk into that sweaty nasty-ass building! Boom!

My resolution of I’m going to eat healthier this year is changing to Girl, look at you! You tossed out way less from that produce bin than you did last week!  Ca-ching!

Things like that.

And instead of bemoaning all the sad things that got me down this year I’ll give a beautiful eulogy to all the things that left me:

Gone: Another Kid to Adulting

I know I yapped up a big storm when my next kid was flying the coop this summer.  I was looking forward to his new adventure as well as my own.  The update on that humble brag is that most days life is actually super quiet and tedious as an empty nester.  So many things are different: cooking, not running the dishwasher, sleeping with the bedroom door open. It really kinda sucks.  But those days pale in comparison to the moments when I see the pictures of the roommate Sunday dinners and the visiting friends hiking together and all the adulting at work that NEVER happened under my roof.  It’s making our upcoming family vacation all the more special since we’re all coming from our different corners to be isolated together for a whole week.  CanNOT wait.

Gone: A Zillion Friends

It’s all good, we’re all throwing dirt on this coffin.  This was my year for going from Being Friends to Being Friendly with a lot of people.  Maybe it has something to do with the Slo-Mo Death of Facebook, something our kids have known all along, but which adults are a little slower on the uptick. To quote a friend, “Ugh, my Facebook feed is super boring now.”  Yep.  Gal, that is universal.  Now that we’ve all deleted our once-submerged-but-now-surfaced political kook friends, and multi-level-marketer pals and the randos we only connected with after our high school reunion, we’ve all come to the realization we really do prefer an intimate circle of people who genuinely care about us.  We are all in good company on this one. Being friendly can never be considered a bad thing.

Gone: My Self Respect

I became a fangirl of the show Sex Lives of College Girls this year, which is funny because I am neither a college girl nor even a mom to one.  I boldly do not care. My husband, who will watch eight uninterrupted hours of football or Steely Dan documentaries, expressed concern but I still don’t care.  The show, having zero to do with my actual life, cracks me up and that’s that. This has subsequently rekindled my obsession with Mindy Kaling (you know her from The Office but I know her as Girl Boss of All the Things).  I listen to her books while walking and binge The Mindy Project reruns every night because I laugh out loud. My biggest absurdist dream is that one day Mindy Kaling stumbles onto my work and discovers I’m almost as funny as she is, so every now and then I tag her in a tweet and pray that she notices.  Shame, out the window.

But my devotion to Mindy has unwittingly brought me a gift.  As the days turned darker (damn, New England, you be grey!)  I’m laughing more now.  I’ve switched from true-crime podcasts to humor memoirs (laughing aloud while all alone keeps people at a distance-another bonus!)   And I’ve found that laughter does indeed boost my spirits.  So when I miss my kids or the air outside is frigid or I’m sad about my sister I turn to the funny to turn things around.  My husband now joins and we sit, bingeing and laughing together and momentarily forgetting it’s just the two of us.  It’s nice.

So while I won’t be making any resolutions, I’ll try to be more mindful of the bad takes I could definitely kick to the curb, not because it’s a new year but because I’ve realized some habits are draining me (looking at you, SCROLLING).  Really, how necessary are the endless stoooooooooopid video reels of people cleaning toilets and throwing blocks of cream cheese into crock pots and folding sweaters the right way gahhhhhhhhhhh!  Just. Stop. It. Getting sucked into the vortex of wasted time is one major habit I am definitely going to work on.

So Happy New Year friends, but more importantly, Happy Old Year!  We’ve had 365 days of smiles, tears, hellos and goodbyes.  How lucky we are to experience all of it!

(And Mindy, if you’re reading this … call me!)

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Boston Globe  TWICE!) &  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!)

Kids, I Love You, Now Leave: A Mom Comes Clean on the Empty Nest Countdown

2 Replies

Copied/pasted from HuffPost, published June 29, 2022: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/empty-nest-syndrome-kids_n_62bad8a9e4b080fb670a224b

My third child is packing up to fly the coop, far, far away, into a new time zone. He’s following in the footsteps of his older siblings and — with his remaining brother left behind in his final year of college — leaving me precariously close to being an empty nester.

I probably should be sadder but I just can’t muster the melancholy. In fact (looks over shoulder, whispers), I may be getting a little giddy.

Listen, I love my children with the heat of a thousand suns but once they get to the age where they can drink, smoke, call an Uber and get audited by the IRS, they really need to go.

I realize this is not a popular sentiment. I scroll Bragbook Facebook. I’m in the minority. I know I’m supposed to fawn over my flawless children and applaud their every waking moment and be their BFF 4eva. But I can’t. I’m just not that kind of mom.

I was raised in the unsupervised ’80s and I am well-schooled in the importance of independence. I know that spreading their wings is paramount to their growth and I fully support their journey, no matter the bumps, bruises or late fees that come with that.

Plus, I’ve done my part. I’ve done my time. I have nurtured and guided them to the best of my ability into educated and (ostensibly) responsible adults and on most days you can find me beaming with pride (and duly boasting all over Facebook). But on the days when the fury of a dozen stacked dishes in bedrooms blurs my vision, the cold hard truth prevails. Nothing good is going to come from them staying under my roof no matter what hardships await them outside my door.

I don’t need to hear how tough it is for them compared to back in my day. I get it. Times have changed and these kids are indeed a strange new breed. They’re taking a longer (maybe more meandering?) road to get to where we were at their age.

Their generation isn’t rushing off to get married right after college (or gasp! earlier) like we did and they most certainly are not planning any gender reveals before they’ve ridden the bull in Nashville for their 30th birthday. Sheesh.

When I want to see their eyes glaze over, I tell my kids all about my first mortgage at age 26. Then I follow it up with a little ditty about squeezing out my fourth baby just in time before having to withstand all those scary DNA tests — mandated at the crusty old age of 35. They love hearing about the olden days. World history is fun!

I am fully aware how expensive life is for a 20-something. I know all about the student loans and the astronomical rents and the $20 drinks at the club.

But allowing my adult kids to stay comfortably in my home without a plan of progression doesn’t help them at all. There is such a thing as being a little too comfortable. And if you have enough disposable income for sports betting and ski trips and brunch every single Sunday, sorry, Mama’s gotta do her part to help you redirect some of that mimosa money.

I don’t want them to have such a pleasant and cushiony lifestyle that it stunts their life skills. I insist my working kids contribute to this household (because they should) but their paltry contribution to my grocery bill isn’t enough of a life lesson. They need more. They also need another ― a different — voice asking:

You gonna just leave that there?

Did you remember to pick up toilet paper?

Have you sent in your rent payment yet?

Don’t get me wrong, my kids are absolutely delightful. But in my home they are messy, they are lazy and they have absolutely no idea how much their parents do for them around the clock.

Fully stocked linen closets. Brewed pots of coffee. Leftovers. Poof. Like magic!

I am super excited for all the new experiences that’ll help them uncover these marvels. What a moment, realizing adulting is tedious and mundane and, ugh, redundant. (What? Out of detergent again? Already?)

Until they become fully independent, they really don’t have any skin in the game of life.

My daughter was a scary slob when she lived here. Her bedroom mirrored a crime scene and her bathroom rivaled a NYC subway in the ’70s. Not long after graduation, she settled across the country with a big-girl job and a grown-up place and a couple of equally employed roommates.

After a few months in her happy adult environment, the call came. She was frustrated at the mess her roommates were leaving. Dishes out for days. Toothpaste rimming sinks. I beamed across the cell towers. See that. Skin in the game. She was proud of her fancy apartment and her expensive furniture and — BAM! — suddenly mess mattered and It. Was. Awesome.

Now that Kid No. 3 is leaving, I’m getting a little woozy thinking about all the wild and wonderful life skills he will soon start to experience.

Like food shopping.

I cannot wait until you have to buy these I whisper to myself in a Disney villain voice, watching his every morning routine of whisking three eggs into sautéed veggies.

And then I think I cannot wait until you have to clean this — literally everyday — as a portion of that same omelet swishes out of the pan and onto the stove, forever unnoticed and forgotten in its little graveyard in the burner.

It’s time. My little chick needs to fly.

I’m tired of the wet towels on the floor, I’m tired of having silent sex in my own house, I’m tired of walking past rooms reeking of weed, I’m tired of beer cans in the shower stall and I am completely tired of all the unopened mail sitting on the counter for weeks at a time. If I have to search for my scissors one more time…

I’m tired of nagging my roommates.

I know the haters are circling. I can smell them, the tsk-tskers, shaking their heads nope and wagging their angry fingers, ready to let me have it, the declarers of You will miss this. You will miss them!

And they are exactly right. I will. And I do — I wholeheartedly miss my elder adulting duo, who live both near and far, yet outside my walls. But our time together is genuinely joyous now. I am elated with every visit and every minute I spend time with them brings a new burst of pride I thought I’d already owned and conquered. They are living independently and ― a bonus ― also giving their ol’ mom super cool places to visit.

Kid No. 3 is making me so proud these days that I don’t even mutter under my breath while collecting all those coffee mugs out of his room.

I cannot wait to send him an air fryer. I cannot wait to visit him. I cannot wait until he Facetimes to ask how to get the dried egg off his stove.

I cannot wait to miss him.

And I cannot wait to get a little misty when he walks in the door for the first time when he comes home to visit.

You know there’ll be plenty of leftovers waiting.

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 on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook  &  @Eyerollingmom on Instagram.  Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found  here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Adult *Kids’ shower:

Last Licks: A Mom’s Parting Shot to Her Adult Kids

5 Replies

My youngest – my baby – just pulled up the rear and became a grown up (well, in the pass me a beer sense.  We all know they’re already true grownups at eighteen *raucous laughter) so what, game over?  Is my job done?   Now that everyone in my litter is (deep breath, slight smirk) adulting I’m golden, right?  Interesting idea.  I’d like to think so but something tells me I haven’t clocked my last timecard.

Listen, I did alright (hair flip).  As a group, all four have become functioning, at times quite likable. members of society.  Nobody’s got a probation officer.  Each has a fancy piece of paper with calligraphy proclaiming educational accomplishment and debt beyond their wildest dreams. They’re making their way, making missteps and figuring things out without too much falling debris.

But if I’m being honest, my no-longer-kids kids have a bit more work ahead of them.

In the event they’re all feeling ultra-confident in their adult super-skins and feel they no longer need mommy, I’m thinking it might be prudent to give them at least a parting shot of sage advice as they venture out into the great wilds of Knowing It All.  But if only I could leave them with the wisest advice, the holy grail of guidance, what would that be?  Cue Eminem, if you had one shot…

Be a good human? Be respectful? Be kind?  Sure, sure, sure. Kumbaya.

I guess I could impart any of those ambiguous ideologies and poof! the world would become a better place, yes?

I don’t know about others but my kids – excuse me – my adult children, may require more specific instruction.   With happiness and wellness in mind, I whittled my words of wisdom to my top three:  tangible actions that may keep their adulting on the right track – and maybe keep melancholy at bay at the same time. Full disclosure: I have no empirical evidence or lengthy research but I do have firsthand knowledge of their own, shall I say lacking areas.  Naturally I’ve put them in order of importance in case any of them lose interest and stop reading.

Here goes.

Be Thoughtful.  This requires an action: actually thinking about others and how they might feel.  For example, your father’s birthday is the same day every year.   Fortheloveofgod, write it down.  Better yet, put it right into your handheld computer-appendage. Better still, start keeping track of all the dates you can bestow simple attention on someone.  Out in public, continue to be thoughtful.  Give up your seat to an elderly person or pregnant woman not because it’s the right thing to do (it is) but because you’re thinking about how lousy it is to be standing at that age or condition.  Your small actions can literally change someone’s day, maybe even life and as an added bonus byproduct: making others feel good has a profound impact on making you feel good, too. Hello, dopamine!

Stay Mindful of Your Money.  Pay your bills on time, pay yourself & watch your money – every week and all the time.  Endless virtual transactions and online apps fool you into thinking you have money.  You do not.  If you start paying attention to the particulars of your finance flow you won’t be gobsmacked by your W-2 realizing how much you truly made in a year. Staying aware of the spending will help keep you ahead of the anxiety that comes with being broke.

Find a Source of Satisfaction.  Find an activity that’ll keep your hands occupied and (mom silently screams) off your phone.  Incessant scrolling is really just amplified boredom and boredom leads to the blues.   Flip pages of books, swing a golf club, dig some dirt, build something, create.  If you have no hobbies or interests, make it a point to find some; it may help make your universe bigger.  Spend time with people in person.  Connect to your community.  A sense of belonging does wonders for the human psyche.

That last one is clutch.  I really do believe the harder stuff falls into place if there’s a healthy mindset because despite an abundance of modern conveniences, they seem to be struggling more than we did.

Maybe we were a tougher generation.  Maybe we had more mettle or survival instinct or perseverance or I don’t know, better movie quotes to keep propelling us through adversity (Goonies never say die!)

Whatever the reason, whether it’s social media or Gen XYZ entitlement or maybe just because they’ve grown up without a good swift kick in the ass (sigh, laws, whatever), they seem to be carrying a lot more emotional baggage than we did.   More than anything I just really want my kids to know that jobs and people come and go but if they can become their own influencer and retain a good sense of self they’ll be fine.

The kids’ll be alright.

I know I’m leaving out a lot and could come up with more … but I’ve got to go assist an *adult dig up a missing birth certificate.

Mom, out.

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 on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook  &  @Eyerollingmom on Instagram.  Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found  here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Outsmarted by Mom? Pfft. Always.

Leave a reply

My childhood played out in the 70s and my adolescence was fine-tuned in the 80s so despite a legitimate fear of the ocean thanks to fictional cinema, I grew up a genius.

Okay maybe not an actual genius but definitely brilliant – especially compared to my kids at that age.  Diplomas aside, I’m sorry, what in the world happened to street smarts?

I grew up knowing things.  Cool things.  Important things. I could Name That Tune in three notes.  I could get anywhere with directions taped to my dashboard (because my friend’s neighbor’s cousin had just traveled there so I knew which Sunoco station to pass then make the next left).  I knew precisely how fast I’d have to run home to make curfew for every minute I’d chosen to overstay my good time.  I’d mastered public transportation by age thirteen (that was just sink or swim – seriously, whose parents were driving them anywhere?)  The things I didn’t know I just sort of figured out, usually by spying on the older kids making out under the street lights.

My kids most definitely could never have swung a covert six-hour road trip to a Genesis concert at the Syracuse dome without GPS OR alerting any parents. They wouldn’t know how to stash two friends in the nearby bushes while hitching to a movie (ooh, big disclaimer here:  kids, do NOT try this today.  There wasn’t any crime back then and no internet to scare us about it if there was, so this reckless act would definitely not be considered brilliant today).  Our refrains of the Reagan era remain to this day: How are we even alive or better, Did we even have parents?

When one of my sons (birth order has been redacted to protect the humiliated) graduated high school he texted me at work to ask if I had a template he could use for his Thank You cards. Wait, wut?

A friend told me her son sent cash to the DMV to pay his $400 speeding ticket.  The worst part?  They actually accepted it so now he thinks his mom’s a nagging lunatic that needs to chill out.

Another’s kid peeled out and sped away from the police after being pulled over – then he forgot to turn off his headlights after he’d successfully ducked into a random driveway down a side street.

Good lord. Am I the only one with concerns?

My kids fully acknowledge my stealth upbringing ruined them.  Getting past me with red eyes or minty breath?  Not a chance. Skipping school?  Fuhgeddaboudit. They were doomed from the start.

They can keep their TikTok; I will forget more in my lifetime than my kids will ever learn.

Good thing they’ve got itty bitty computers in their pockets.  If only those were ever charged.

***

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!)

Worse Than The Mean Girls? The Angry, Angry Adults.

Leave a reply

I have been trying my damnedest to turn away from negativity but I’m finding it no small feat.  It would be a lot easier if nastiness wasn’t (accurately) everywhere but it seems it’s become the norm to express anger the moment it’s felt.  Have keyboard, will spew.  It’s insane. And getting worse.

The spewing has been gaining in momentum and rising in vitriol for years.  How have we not managed to reel this in?  How is there still so much bullying going on?

When I appeared on Trading Spaces the producers emphatically warned: don’t go onto the internet.  Of course I did and it was awful.  The message boards were brimming with horrid comments and insults because why, total strangers found good fortune?  What in the actual hell.  That was 2003.  Almost 20 years ago.

I recently watched the amazing Amy Schneider’s thrilling run on Jeopardy (who? give it a Goog).   I just read that she, too, was counseled to do the same and in fact, went so far as to delete all her social media accounts for the duration of her record-breaking reign.  How sad.

Clearly we have not come a long way, baby.

It used to be we worried about our kids being bullied – or worse, being bullies.  My daughter was a victim back in eighth grade.  That was 2008.  Not physical (thankfully) but traumatic all the same.  While I was alerted at the start, the other parents were only brought into the loop days later – after confessions were tied up in a neat little bow and receipts for vandalized possessions were printed.

At the time I thought more about being the other parents and getting that call out of the blue. Can you even imagine?  I would’ve been distraught.

I think about years ago when my husband worked for a real pompous ass (I know…who hasn’t, I digress).  One night we channel surfed onto a national news program reporting on a hazing scandal at a prestigious prep school nearby. It was worse than bad.  (Think locker room, cocky jocks and (sorry) bananas.  Horrific.)  One of the perpetrators was the son of the pompous ass boss. Seriously.  I couldn’t help but feel utter devastation for him.

Our kids have always had the ability to change the direction of our lives on a dime with One.  Stupid.  Move.  One poor choice.  One thoughtless act.  As parents, all we can do is brace ourselves for the unexpected and try to do our best to keep things on the right track and pray that common sense prevails.  We’re not masters of the universe though.  Kids are still being horrible and social media has ignited an entire breeding ground of cruelty.  It’s an anonymous wild west of venom and a whole new playing field of warfare.  We get that (prayers to parents of emergent tweens. Shudder).

But adults are bringing unkindness to a whole new level.

Remember when the worst display of adults behaving badly came from contempt shouted from the bleachers? (*Sighs wistfully) Those were the days.

I’ve written about this before but it’s only gotten worse in the years since that posted.

I had a recent piece published on a national platform (wait, what, you missed all my shameless plugging? Fret not!  It’s right here ). The gist was simple: closing chapters on friends that no longer reciprocate affection or attention. That’s it, nothing earth shattering.  It was a personal essay, not a declaration of my opinion of politics, air fryers or, worse, Yellowstone. Yet – holy fkkking shtttt, – out came the villagers with torches.   Incredibly (in the you have GOT to be kidding me file) most of the naysayers were men who apparently have a lot to say about female friendship.

Seriously?

Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.

What in the world motivates grown-ups to be negative and nasty?   Even if a person comes across something upsetting, aren’t there enough kitten pictures out there to ease that temper and turn that frown upside down?

I don’t have a proclamation for my soapbox and I certainly don’t have any solutions (actually if I could brag I’d admit I’m actually in pretty good company:  I just saw my good friend Ty Pennington come out with guns blazing over his body shamers) but I wish more people would just stop typing.

Or at least use a dictionary.

Excuse me while I go find some puppy pics to go with this post.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and recently was featured in Huff Post. 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. And @Eyerollingmom on Instagram.  Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found  here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

ScoliosiS(hit)

2 Replies

Eyerollingmom’s Diary Page — Wednesday, October, 1, 2008

Those who check in occasionally know I normally use this space for a light chuckle.  Unlike many who utilize a blog for always beautiful, sometimes cathartic prose, I tend to go with the humorous details of my life.  I find the funny in every day.

Still, there are my peeps that do check in to find out what’s new.  (These are friends who are well aware that the photo I’ve posted is many years old.  Hey, hey, hey — people on those cyber dating sites do this ALL THE TIME.  Apparently using an old yet flattering picture is like, totally, cool….)

In any case, here we go:  while her mom still navigates the residual emotional exhaustion of yesterday’s six-hours at Boston’s Children’s Hospital, my daughter donned her new (pink) scoliosis brace for the first time today.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be A) battling spontaneous tears (that come from said exhaustion) and B) battling my daughter for many, many calendar days to come.

No mother, nowhere, at no time, wants any doctor to ever tell her there is something not perfect with her child.  The same initial wind gets knocked out of her whether she’s hearing her child has leukemia or asthma.  Whether her child needs a new kidney, a new hearing aid or a new scoliosis brace.  It’s just the way it is.  Parents feel the same level of terror when their child goes in for any surgery whether it’s ear tubes or tonsils or transfusions.  These are our babies.

However, being at Children’s Hospital is a tremendously humbling experience.  While I wanted to wallow in the lousy turn my daughter’s life is going to take right now, I could not.  For as we waited our turn in the brace shop I was drawn to the smiling faces of the beautiful toddlers who were being strolled in by their weary mothers.  Each had on a brightly colored cranial helmet.  I almost broke down in shame.  How could I possibly be upset at my situation?  There are far, far worse things in life, I truly, deeply know.

But today, away from the babies and awakened at dawn for brace patrol and an early morning meeting with the school nurse, I am sad.  And at the same time ashamed at my sadness.

So I’m not feeling very humorous today.  I can’t help it.  It is awful enough being thirteen. Whether or not it’s a favorite color, pink doesn’t always go with everything.

*2022 Update: The exhausted mom turned out okay. The gal in the brace … even better.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and recently was featured in Huff Post. 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. and@Eyerollingmom on Instagram.

Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found on this site (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Missed the start of A Momoir?  Begin here:

Chapter 1, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/07/29/a-collection-of-eyerolls-chapter-1-yes-billy-joel-we-will-all-go-down-together/

A Momoir, Chapter 15: Down & Dirty: A Marriage Turns 30

2 Replies

I just reached my thirtieth wedding anniversary.  It came and went without the Rocky music playing; just a basic Tuesday, a bottle of wine, some seafood and a couple of cute photos posted. Honestly, it didn’t seem like such a Herculean effort reaching the milestone. I’ve got a bunch of friends and family still long-hauling in their marriages.  I’ve also got friends who are my-age-newlyweds and one that has finally found Mr. Right with husband #3.  These friends are still at the starry-eyed stage so I try not to spend too much time with them (it makes me feel bad about broadcasting every misstep of my spouse).  Obviously they’ve got a lot of catching up to do but my point is, hitting thirty years didn’t seem as symbolic as it (probably) was.  Really, if given the choice between staying married or online dating … shudder.

I don’t have any words of wisdom and can’t share any magical tips (my Master Class on Matrimony would most resemble a stand-up routine) but having made it this far I guess I might possess some admirable experience on living harmoniously with facial tics, no?

Sure, we’ve come a long way, baby, but it’s not because I picked a perfect partner (please — more on his jazz hands later) but I guess what it boils down to is I just sorta picked someone perfect in putting up with me.

I’m super easy going.  Until I’m not.

I’m fairly sensible.  Until um, shoes.

I’m reasonably intelligent.  Until um, history, geography and science questions.

I’m a (cue WooHoo!) damn good time. Until um, Tito’s.

And that’s not even mentioning the heels, hot wings, beer and karaoke I come with.

Trust me, as wives go, I’ve got it going on.  Him?  Sigh.  Not so much.

He’s a little bit weirdo (closes every blind in every room when he takes a shower, convinced the neighbors are lying in wait with binoculars), a little bit rebel (that’s it, NO!  I am NOT getting up in the middle of the night to finish this final dose of colonoscopy cleanse!) and at times a lot annoying (everyone likes him.  I mean everyone.  Really, it’s annoying.)

Worse, while I battle the sands of time and do everything in my power to fight the good fight (collagen powder, get to work, girl!), he chooses to age right in front of my eyes.   Want to hear the extended 10-day forecast every morning before you’ve stirred your coffee? He’s your guy.

His signature move?  Watching rock and roll documentaries every weekend in the early hours before I rise and telling me all about them all day long.  Stevie Nicks, we hardly knew ye.

And then there’re all those other things I’m pretty sure are commandments of the Husband Oath:

Picking movies of zero interest to others, then falling asleep during them and asking for a recap. (Hard nope.)

Demanding the remote, selecting a show, then immediately scrolling on his phone.

Warming up the shower for longer time than his actual shower.

And finally, the absolute worst: losing weight effortlessly, whenever he feels he’s put on a few.

Right?  How in the world does he have any woman? 

I could scream, but if I’m being completely honest, it’s not all bad.  For starters, he happens to be an exceptional dad, (although he was forced to relinquish his power to assert consequence after, during a heated family blowout, he delivered the infamous phrase that will now forever be etched on our family tree: This ain’t no gangsta family!) It certainly diffused the tense situation but it took awhile for four teenagers to get up off the floor.  He’s slowing regaining some street cred with them (he ran a couple of marathons and got Venmo) so he’ll be fine.

He’s a keeper.  He gets me.  He still tells me to be careful every time he spies me on my folding stepstool.  And he continually buys me itty bitty icky underwear off the internet because in his eyes I haven’t aged a day or gained a pound since 1991. 

Most days we are a living, breathing marriage meme (If you like getting annoyed at the way someone loads a dishwasher marriage may be for you!) but clearly we’ve seemed to find our groove. Longtime couples get super fat, super grey, super snippy and super unsexy over the course of time.  We’ve figured out the secret sauce is not doing it all at the same time.  We’ve learned to alternate and stagger that shizz. 

Our marriage has had our fair share of critical moments but like childbirth, those times fade to a murky remembrance once you’ve gotten through them and the storms are in the rearview mirror.  Deep down we genuinely like each other.  And (jazz hands notwithstanding) we make each other laugh. 

About those jazz hands, I’m not spilling tea here – he parades them in public when (cringe) dancing.  Picture a ridiculously happy guy, arms raised above his head, pumping them up and down while encouraging others to join him — you know, like a bouncing (bopping) billboard for Club Med.   In the secret society of love languages, this is our private signal that I am now the designated driver.  See?  We work well together.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, James, will you accept this rose?

It’s time we celebrate.  Whaddaya say we get romantic and pop in our edited, three-hour wedding videotape to see if we recognize anyone.

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!)

A Momoir, Chapter 14: This Good Mom Survived a Bad Kid & (Spoiler Alert) You Can, Too

1 Reply
If only life’s REAL rollercoaster was this innocent!

* Disclaimer:  I was recently contacted by a distraught mom.  She’d read one of my pieces about the time my son was putting us through the ringer while in high school (catch it here).  She wanted me to know she was going through something similar and was heartbroken but that I’d given her hope.  It made me remember another related story about that time so I dug it up & decided to make it another chapter. (Sorry if it seems repetitive – perhaps one day a savvy editor will assist with this!) Maybe this one will offer some hope as well. I believe the singular best moment of motherhood is realizing how utterly normal our imperfect families are.  Recognizing this is genuinely life changing.  I think it’s important to share our good, bad and please-delete-that-pic ugly so we all know we are soooooo not alone when slogging through the darkest tunnels.   It helps seeing the glimmer of light.  Because there’s always a glimmer. Always.)

*    *    * 

My parenting style is fairly conventional (except maybe when my sons were young and I’d hand them a scraper and say “Get to work” after finding dried boogers on the walls next to their beds.  I don’t know who else does this but it should be standard practice if you ask me.  Nasty boys.  Anywho).  When it came to discipline I pretty much just swayed towards commons sense.

Honor Roll allowed a kid to keep a cell phone in middle school.

A clean bathroom got a high schooler out the door on Friday night.

You dent the car, you pay for it.

It never really seemed that hard.

My parenting philosophy didn’t involve much head-scratching so I have to admit, I was ready for the adolescence of my children.  Growing up on Long Island in the unsupervised 80s, my friends and I had mastered the art of outsmarting authority and evading evidence of typical teen shenanigans.

I had this, I thought.   Bring on the acne.

I never imagined it would culminate with a composed call to the police, asking them to come get my child.

It was especially trying — and surprising — when my second born, a daughter, went through her head-spinning-Linda-Blair stage first, at fourteen.  While she was screaming and carrying on about calling Child Protective Services and attempting to bore holes into our foreheads with her fury, my oldest son just flew under the radar.  A junior in high school, he was a typical, well, boy.  Immature, uninterested in school and willing to eke by with the minimum of work exerted.  By most standards, the textbook teen boy.

He was always a bit young for his age but rather than dwell on his mediocre grades we tried to focus on his charm, and magnetism.  He was well-liked, pleasant, good natured and  —  mother’s pride aside —  a delight.  I loved the stuffing outta him.  Always have.

Turns out, this extreme love came in handy when I began to hate him.

I don’t recall exactly when the metamorphosis of my good-boy-gone-bad began but I do remember every detail of warning, every red-flag.

With each rebellious incident I tried to keep perspective.  I even rationalized.  I did this, too.  The drinking.  The pot.  The skipped school.  The scummy friends.  Wasn’t this typical teen territory?  I even admitted, I did far worse (thank you, 1986).  So I tried to keep a cool head and held firm with consequences.  Even though much of the time I felt like I was swimming against a tide (a tide of parents who unfathomably presented cars for sixteenth birthdays and provided smartphones through school suspensions) I did what I was supposed to do.  My litany of repercussions included (but were not limited to):  grounding, taking phones, taking plates off cars, paying for NOTHING (yearbook, class trips, clothing, toiletries, prom, car insurance) ….. Good God, we took away everything.  We joked that my son lived an Amish lifestyle.

He Just.  Didn’t.  Care.   About anything, it seemed.

When enough was enough, we finally took his four-year-college off the table.  We had done our part:  attended freshman orientation, bought the sweatshirts and travel mugs, kept our hopes high for some show of maturity.   It didn’t come.  As his senior year came to an end, he still hadn’t gotten it.

We put our foot down.  No way, we said.  There was no chance we were going to strap ourselves paying for a university when he wasn’t even getting himself to high school – for free. We told him he needed to get his act together, prove himself responsible and start with community college.  It was all we had left.  We privately envisioned that kid – that horrifically headline-storied kid each year – that ends up dead in a dorm room from alcohol before classes have even started.

Nothing seemed to work.  So we told him to rethink his plans for the future.

Turns out, our Great American Parenting Plan backfired because well, he left.

He just left.

He called it moving out.  But conventional wisdom would argue that throwing some clothes in a duffle 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 any angry fanfare or slamming doors —  my oldest child left our home six days before his high school graduation.

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.

But I knew in my heart: he was a good kid and we were good parents.

And I knew deep down that he’d be back one day.

He was.  After a long and fretful 47 days.

When he returned we spent what was left of the summer reconnecting as a family and licking our wounds.  Damage had been done and both sides were duly cautious about a recurring Groundhog Day of past occurrences.

But things were far from perfect.  In time, familiar nagging doubts started creeping in.  There was a level of distrust that I just couldn’t shake.  At times I seemed sadder now that he was home than when he’d been gone.  Things didn’t seem much better and I wondered if I would ever again feel joy when my son walked into a room.

Disrespect is a mighty deal breaker in my home and I do not believe a refrain of “This is my home and these are my rules” should be up for interpretation. When my beloved son’s behavior started down the slippery slope of insolence once again, I felt stronger and wiser when I addressed it.

Not long after he returned, he decided once again that our curfew was unreasonable and didn’t come home.

When he eventually did …  his room was packed up, our locks were changed and we were waiting.

I told him since he wasn’t ready to resume living in MY home with MY rules, he needed to leave. He refused.   I showed him all his things.   He still refused to leave.  I then called the police.

I wasn’t afraid of the neighbors seeing, or knowing, or talking.

I wasn’t afraid of him actually leaving either.  I realized I’d survived the last time he left, and would this time, too.  And this time, it was going to be on MY terms.

I realized I wasn’t afraid of anything. And that absence of fear was indescribably empowering.

We sat together calmly, in silence, and waited for the police to arrive.

I have to say, when they walked in they seemed surprised to encounter a domestic disturbance that wasn’t terribly disturbing at all.

The officer in charge kindly – but sternly – let my teenager know the deal:  It was 48 hours before my son’s eighteenth birthday, therefore by law, we were required to care for him.  But only for two more days.  After that, should they get called again, they would have to take him out of the home.

It is my honest belief that a couple of changed locks and a few police cars will do wonders for a teen’s psyche.   It changed everything for us.

My son learned a lot of things that day.  He learned we were absolutely done. And he learned (thank you, officer) that if you expect to live in your parents’ home, you should expect to follow their rules.  Period.

I believe – no, I know – that once this became clear to him, it may have been his personal epiphany.  It was as if his rebellion started to break away and let some clarity emerge.  Hell, maybe it was simply a badge … or a look of “Really, kid?” coming from someone other than his own parents.

I have absolutely no idea why it never sank in before that moment.  I likely never will.

It was a dark and rocky couple of years and – no joke – at times paled in comparison to my daughter’s fright fest at age fourteen – but we got through it.  Good parents raising good kids usually do.

It was excruciating and difficult to do what most parents don’t seem to have the strength to do:  follow through with consequences and demand respect.  But we did.  Even though it damn well felt as if our family was in tatters, we held strong.

The joy of my firstborn, while on hiatus for a heartbreaking while, eventually returned.

Today, many moons later, the kid that spun us in circles is a successful, independent adult.   He’s still well-liked, pleasant, good natured and  —  mother’s pride aside —  a delight.  I still love the stuffing outta him and my face lights up whenever he enters the room.

The thing is, now I’ve got to come up with some new rules;   that crazy Labrador of his runs this house when he visits and gawwwwd, I am turning into a softie. I have got to get ahead of this insanity before I lose my edge!

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was featured 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. and@Eyerollingmom on Instagram.

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

Chapter 1, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/07/29/a-collection-of-eyerolls-chapter-1-yes-billy-joel-we-will-all-go-down-together/

Chapter 2, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/08/13/chapter-2-sometimes-kids-suck-a-lot/

Chapter 3, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/09/22/chapter-3-sorry-were-tied-all-kids-are-filthy/

Chapter 4, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/12/02/a-momoir-chapter-4-a-moms-plea-to-seth-rogen-enough-with-the-masturbation-already/

Chapter 5, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/04/20/a-momoir-chapter-5-the-magnitude-of-the-middle-aged-mom/

Chapter 6: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/08/24/a-momoir-chapter-6-im-not-always-like-you-mom-but-thats-okay/

Chapter 7: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/12/01/a-momoir-chapter-7-hello-happiness-are-you-out-there-hello-hello/

Chapter 8: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2019/06/14/a-momoir-chapter-7-high-school-graduation-my-big-fat-so-what/

Chapter 9: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2019/08/12/a-momoir-chapter-9-parenting-horrific-behavior-would-you-know-could-you/

Chapter 10: Click here: A Momoir, Chapter 10: Coming Clean: The Art of Mastering Uncomfortable Conversations

Chapter 11: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/02/22/a-momoir-chapter-11-how-many-back-in-my-days-until-you-officially-morph-into-your-mom/

Chapter 12: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/03/17/a-momoir-chapter-12-when-a-teen-up-leaves/

Chapter 13:  Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/07/24/a-momoir-chapter-13-covid-edition-or-rather-still-not-skinny/

Becoming Goldilocks: My Dumpster Journey to Just Right

1 Reply

I recently sold my house.  It went on the market right before the start of the pandemic and stalled for some time.  But then the real estate virus volcano – fueled by an urban exodus – blew and swept us up in its frenzy.  It was a great relief unloading our oversized frat house but it happened so quickly we found ourselves without a place to go.

We took a deep breath, put all our stuff into storage and moved into a small furnished seasonal rental, a few houses from the ocean.  We began living a simplified life using other people’s stuff and it caused an interesting shift.  Turns out isolation plus a storage unit made me realize just how unimportant most stuff really is.

We slept on strangers’ sheets.  When I served soup it was poured out of a blue dinosaur plastic ladle because that’s all that was in the drawer.  My family photos were replaced by a charming assortment of mermaid kitsch and polite Thank You for Not Smoking plaques. I drank wine out of teeny tiny timeshare-type glasses and used the laundry detergent leftover from last summer’s Airbnb occupants.

I had very little of my own stuff around me and no lie, I really didn’t miss it. 

With space constraints coupled with work-from-home seclusion, I only unpacked one box of clothing: an assortment of leggings and tees that were worn in a constant rotation of who the fkkk cares?  I shared a bed with my husband but not a closet – it was way too small.  His stuff was somewhere else in the rental and I wished them all the best.

I didn’t require much of anything really.  I haven’t worn a pair of actual shoes in almost a year  (with nowhere to go and no one to see, seriously: who the fkkk cares?)  I kept out two pairs of jeans (one tight pair to keep me honest and one loose pair to keep me real) but I can’t remember the last time I wore either.  I haven’t worn less makeup since sixth grade so naturally I carry adequate anxiety for Revlon and wonder who might be keeping them afloat (I so miss you, Super Model No.45 matte lipstick, but since you are unseen under my mask… farewell for now).

Downsizing into a small space has been refreshing.  No big surprise: the more space you have the more you fill it – many times with unnecessary things (looking at you, filing cabinet). With our chicks flying the nest we’d spent the better part of last year purging but even after being dumpster-happy I still feel we have more stuff than we need.

So from the start it felt good to embrace a simpler way.  To even the scales of stress that came with the uncertainty of what next? the sun gods winked at us as we settled in, offering up a remarkable Indian summer autumn.  During our first couple of months we walked the shore at low tide and pondered our next move. It was mah-va-lus.

Alas, as the weeks churned, our carefree, no-strings-attached mood started changing.  When the cold weather came and the days got shorter, our beach turned ferocious. No joke: with every storm the water swished in the toilets.  The New England winter set in and with the blustery outdoors now a limited option we soon felt the constrictions of our tiny lifestyle.  Big time.

A family of adults working/schooling from home and living in tight quarters makes for long days.  Darkness beginning before the nightly news makes for long nights.  At times we found ourselves a bit, I’ll say, testy with each other.

When Crosby Stills & Nash sang Love the One You’re With they had no idea.

Really.

No.  Idea.

I cannot sugarcoat, it became a genuine struggle staying positive or (FINE) even civil.

But we kept the doldrums at bay by looking ahead.  We may have shifted from too big to too small but like Goldilocks, we may have found something on the horizon that feels just right to resume some normalcy.  Before the next Airbnb visitors arrive here to enjoy the blue dinosaur ladle we hope to be heading back to our loyal storage unit to see how our things have fared.

Hopefully we’ll soon be hauling them to a new location for a fresh start.

I’m going to keep purging (farewell, filing cabinet) but I’ll also be keeping things simple.

With or without Revlon.

Stay tuned to see if/where we landed!

Update:  this blog was duly unpacked!  We have landed in our not-too-big-not-too-small paradise and have turned a page on a new chapter!  I know there’ll be days when I miss some of the amenities I took for granted (like coat closets – GAH! why are houses ever built without them???  Stupid!) but I’ve got room for visiting kids and plenty of space for post-pandemic parties and well….  I should be all set as soon as I replace some of that stuff I madly tossed in a dumpster. See?  I’m almost ready for my friends! 

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!)

Me, My Mom & the Stink Eye

1 Reply

My mom was a witch.  I mean, not in the literal sense (although you might not want to ask my junior high friends; that’s an unfairly rough period to judge).  But she was super-superstitious.  I spent my entire life watching her toss salt over her shoulder and muttering nutso things all the time.  Not the typical warnings of black cats and broken backs; more like ominous forewarnings of fate misfortunes, like having babies with horns or causing a wedding day catastrophe all because you’d carelessly added oregano into your red sauce.

When my high school boyfriend gave me pearl earrings for Christmas she sniffed, “Pearls mean tears.”  She said nothing else.

Um, okay?

In fairness, he was kind of a jerk and her spidey sense for Wrong Boys was spot on way before my adolescence picked up on it but her remark alone clearly seeped into my subconscious.  I’ve never really been a fan of pearl jewelry (and, for this Long Island girl, ignoring that accessory was an 80s struggle for sure.  Thanks, Madonna).  But the truth is, that boy caused A LOT of tears so who knows, maybe she was right.   

But there were others, and most came void of any logic or rationale.  You just obeyed.

Never put your shoes on the table.  I do not.  Never have.

Never open your shower gifts with scissors.  Think that’s easy?  Try it.

Don’t wear black when you’re pregnant.  Actually, this bad omen was later confirmed. I never really heeded this until I was strolling through NY’s San Gennaro feast in the ninth month of my first pregnancy.  Now, this is a typical street festive, where booths and food trucks line the avenue and you gain weight from the smells alone.  It was summer, and right before the start of my maternity leave.  I was wearing a spectacular solid black, A-frame swing dress that I’d ordered from a (gasp! PRE-INTERNET) catalog.  It was perfect for my unforgiving girth and I could wear it even after the baby came.  Back in the pre-Amazon day you seriously took your chances with mail order clothing but this was a winner.  It made my bloated brain convinced I looked like Audrey Hepburn so I bought two:  the other was hot pink.  Anyway, as I strolled the streets with a group of co-workers a very old woman started motioning to me from her food stand.  I smiled and started making my way towards her (free sausage sample?  All in, ma’am!). As I got closer I could see was definitely not smiling back at me, but rather she was shaking her head.  She began wagging a wrinkled, crooked finger at me and started speaking in Italian.  She gestured to my overall physique, kept muttering things I did not understand and made the sign of the cross before shooing me away in disgust.  

I wore the hot pink number for the remaining weeks of the pregnancy and never (ever) told my mother.  (Spoiler alert, the baby arrived without horns).

Crazy, right?  This odd and offhand advice was naturally followed up with Don’t dress your baby in black so you can bet your sweet ass my kids have never looked like those sleek Kardashian kids.  Good grief, so not work the risk.

I know all these tales of caution were the stuff of folklore handed down from her own mother.  Once in childhood my grandmother once told me to never sleep on my left side.  You’ll crush your heart, she whispered. Imagine a little girl waking up in a sweaty panic any time she woke in the middle of night to find she’d shifted to that position.  Gah!

For most of my life I took this all in and didn’t push back much because frankly I didn’t have the gumption (ahh, old-fashioned elder respect) or Google (ahh, 90s) to argue.

But every now and then in adulthood I did.

My mom would always affirm odd numbered years were bad.  Whenever something tragic occurred she’d remark knowingly, Well, it is an odd year…. 

I’d had it.  With all the respect I could muster I politely yet adamantly refused to acquiesce.  I pointed out that, in addition to getting married in an odd year (30+ years and counting ), all four of my kids were born in odd years.

She drifted into thought for a few moments before nodding and smiling, You’re right she whispered.  I’m sure she was taking inventory of all the endless blessings that came from her obedient daughter shielding her grandchildren from all that ebony clothing.

She shrugged and went on about her business, indifferent that I’d challenged — and taken down — her smug stink eye.  Pfffft. Nonsense averted.

In the end, she tried to get the last laugh down the road by departing the world in an odd year (touché, Mom, touché) but something tells me, had she seen the Covid Circus of 2020, I might’ve had basis for continued conversation.

Definitely keeping that nugget tucked away until I see her again.

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!)