Tag Archives: children

A Momoir, Chapter 6: I’m Not Always Like You, Mom. But That’s Okay.

My kids always roll their eyes but they know better than to squint and call bullshttt when I tell my stories. They know the truth: that I am a living, breathing product of the (legendary) Unsupervised Generation. I drank in junior high school. I hitchhiked. I rode public transportation before friends taught me how to drive. I smoked. I cut class. I snuck in. I snuck out. I did unscrupulous things every chance I got.

My mother knew none of this.

I also did my homework without being told, got myself to school (and work and EVERYwhere else) without help and filled out college applications without so much as a sniff of curiosity from my mother. I likewise ate what was prepared, picked up after myself and made sure to disagree with her in my head or into my pillow rather than unleash a fate far worse than my imagination could ever muster.

Despite the lack of assistance (or Uber) it was not a hard life. If I’m being completely honest, it was fondly enjoyable even (you don’t say) without the internet. It seems my generation was adulting before there was even a trendy term for it and I don’t remember anyone ever complaining about it. There were fun times (drinking age = 18 = #seriously) and scary moments (drinking age = 18 = #seriously) and there was no shortage of regrets or mistakes or lessons learned.

Oddly enough, I grew into a mom who knows where her children are most of the time. Kind of a weird paradox, I know.

Every year around this time at the anniversary of her passing, my thoughts drift to my mom. She’s been gone several years now and while there are moments when it feels like cliched yesterday, there are other times when it feels like I’ve been flailing through motherhood lost and adrift without her for longer than I can remember. I often think about how similar we are (apologies to my better half for the insufferable German stubbornness) but more telling is how different we became as moms.

I imagine most people try to improve upon their own histories. I know I do.

My earliest memory of telling my mother I loved her was from a pay phone in the hallway of my freshmen dormitory. As I grew older it bothered me more and more that it might have been the first time I ever said those words aloud. It affected me so profoundly those words became my personal pillar of parenting. I’ve raised four kids who have been hearing it – and saying it — their entire lives: into their phones, over their shoulders and across my kitchen counter.

My mom was a woman of few words when I was a teenager. A divorced mother raising three kids alone wasn’t exactly the norm back in the early 80s. She had a lot going on and kept her business to herself (lord, she would loathe Facebook today). She didn’t banter with my friends (cannot lie, she was a wee bit feared), she didn’t know any of my friends’ parents and she was barely civil to my boyfriends (alright, looking back, perhaps she may have been on to something).

When I went through a high school breakup the only way she knew about it was when she heard Phil Collins’ “Throwing it All Away” on a six-day loop through my bedroom wall. I’ll never forget her coming into my doorway and warily whispering, “Please. Play another song.” That was it. No sentimental mother-daughter moment or long car ride for ice cream. Onward I went.

Conversely, I chat up my kids’ squads all the time (interesting aside: my mom never used hip terms like squad because she could’ve cared less about appearing hip. Again, why be hip when you can terrify?). My own home often bustles with kids and I can get a hold of every one of their parents with a single tap. Contrary as well, when any of my own litter experiences heartache I am at the ready. My eagle eye and alert ear can detect the slightest change in demeanor, attitude or (sigh) hygiene and my maternal senses hurl into overdrive. I am at once a bevy of constant communication and presence to my troubled teens. It appears I have become the nurturing contradiction of my own adolescence. This is entirely surprising to me because – again — I never felt slighted or deficient in my own adolescence. I can’t recall any friend ever confiding in her mom back then either. That’s what girlfriends had each other for.

My siblings and I would kid my mom mercilessly about her earlier Teflon exterior. She was a tough one for sure but man, oh man, did she mellow out as time went on. It might’ve been her second husband, who arrived just in time to steady her, lessened her load of financial worry and loved her endlessly. More likely it was the welcome stream of good fortune that befell her family the second half of her lifetime. After a difficult decade or so, my mom’s life blossomed and happiness settled in to reveal her softer, fiercely funny side that was clearly dormant in my own youth. She was able to witness her three kids all marry and create enjoyable lives for themselves. She was showered with ten – TEN! – grandchildren, the joy of which infused her every thought and attention (alas, cue in the dejected and forlorn look of abandonment from said second husband, forever delegated to the 11^th spot in her life).

I wish she was here to see them all now.

I especially long for her to see mine.

My oldest was a high school senior and putting us through the ringer at the time of her illness. Whisper as we tried to shield her from our own distress, she knew. She always knew. I would give anything for her to see how he turned things around to shine so brightly. She would be over the moon with pride at the amazing and impressive young man he’s become.

Long before she died my mother had already taught my daughter how to sew but her protégé had only just begun to display her innate talent. In the time she’s been gone my creative gal has gone on to teach herself how to knit, then crochet, then paint, then create jewelry, then, just recently, open an online store. Without question these two special ladies were kindred spirits of an enviable kind. I know the magnitude of her granddaughter’s natural gift would fill my mom to her absolute core and I so wish she could revel in it.

She would still get the biggest kick out of my second son, whose devilish grin as the tween she adored now radiates the stubbled face of a young man. He captures every nuance of my mom’s own unassuming and affable personality and she would be tickled at their spitfire similarity. Gawd, if she ever caught sight of him in his college dress blues she might never stop showing his picture around Long Island.

She’d probably favor my youngest the most, a mere little boy when she left us. There was never any harm helping out the baby, she believed, because from any vantage point all the others always seemed unfairly ahead of the pack (*writer shakes head, remembering her childhood). My littlest’s unrivaled charm would find her putty in the palm of his hand. If she could see him now she’d gush at his every accolade, triumph in his every touchdown and sneakily slip him a twenty whenever they were alone.

I get jealous of my fortunate friends who still have time with their moms. I really do. I hate that my kids won’t see their Nanny’s eyes glistening at their weddings. I hate that they don’t get to hear any more of her stories. They wouldn’t dare roll an eye at hers. I hate that she’s not here to teach them more.

But if I find myself on a lonely road, I know too well my friends will eventually find themselves on a difficult one. Aging parents leave battle scars endured only by the strongest of daughters. I hope my familiarity and understanding of this stage of adulting is a comfort to them, for I’ll be at the ready for all of them when they need me.

I miss my mom at some moment in every day.

As the years tick on without her I shall remain incredibly bemused at our similarities (sarcasm, anyone?) and increasingly content with our differences (ummmm, mea culpa, mom, for the bandwagon Facebook brags). Something tells me she would be nothing but overjoyed at the perfect metamorphosis of the Mom she raised.

(Finally, for what it’s worth, here’s my maternal postscript to my kids: Just because I did it doesn’t mean you can. Remember, spidey senses. I catch EVERYthing.)

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!)

Chapter 2: Sometimes Kids Suck. A lot.

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The idea for this book was derived a super long time ago, during one Christmas break when my then-teenaged daughter stopped talking to me (for a mountain of reasons that will be peppered throughout this momoir but really, it happened so often, does it matter?). She was grounded for the entire vacation and I was committed to making sure she didn’t bolt or sneak out so I stayed home, too, (you will soon see why I’ve crowned myself the Mother of all Martyrs). Misery may love company but cutting off a teenager from her friends is really quite satisfying. I had a lot of free time so I just started taking notes. Lots and lots of notes. (A side note: I take notes all the time because again, I am of a certain age and can only remember song lyrics of my youth. Remember when I wrote on cocktail napkins to remember details of my hilarious cruise?) Digressing again. Anyway …

Ironically, she’d been pestering me to write a book for a long time. Of course at that time her literary requirements consisted of summer love and vampires so I’m hoping she’s not too alarmed at what emerged from her urging. Had she known my first attempt would be (somewhat) at her expense she might’ve toned down her behavior a notch, but hey, a book’s a book.

The last of my four children is now a teenager so I’d like to think I’ve gotten a decent handle on this adolescent thing. You know – that out-of-the-blue explosion of angst and rage and emotion that’s been known to destroy a family dinner with a single grunt. One thing I’ve found is it is significantly easier dealing with irrational adolescent behavior when someone you know has already experienced it. For example, one time upon hearing my daughter threaten to turn me into the authorities I (naturally) called her bluff, scoffing, “Go ahead – make the call.”

In retelling that story (who wouldn’t?) I discovered that my friend Jerry had a way better response when it happened to him. He shouted back to his insolent teen, “Go ahead – make the call – and tell them to bring a body bag because they’ll be making a pick up!”

See? Older and wiser plus additional experience equals a far funnier story. I love Jerry.

It pays to surround yourself with people who have weathered earlier storms because someone else’s story will always top yours and you might realize we all come out of this alive.

Like I said, I’m no expert but I am somewhat experienced. I know I’ve got more melodrama headed my way but for the record I’ve already survived:

A kid sneaking out of the house after I’d gone to bed. Repeatedly.

A kid coming home high.

A kid lying, stealing, drinking, plagiarizing, and being an all-around dickhead.

A kid packing up a duffle bag and moving out six days before his high school graduation.

And about a gazillion other dizzying incidents that – God willing — may seem uproarious many, many years down the road.

That’s really my only goal here: to one day find each excruciating and hellish kid antics humorous in some small way. I think parenting is easier when you believe it might.

Haha, remember that year you got so angry you threw all your Christmas presents in the garbage?

Remember when you fried your laptop by spilling nail polish remover into it?

Hey, wasn’t that hilarious when you left all those wet towels on the floor and they permanently warped your floorboards?

Ohmygod how funny was that when you lost two cell phones in two months?

For sure, those are some things that were absolutely UNfunny when they were happening in real time. But man, oh man, I think we all need to believe they will be one day. I’m a big believer in camaraderie and an even bigger advocate in the healing power of laughter. I think the world’s a prettier place with daily laughs and nightcaps, and Tylenol PM and a sound machine (oh wait, nevermind, that’s my bedtime list) so I try to look on the brighter side of say, wanting to punch your kid in the face, and I always try to look for that clichéd light at the end of the tunnel. It’s always best if that light isn’t an oncoming freight-train of a kid’s hormonal fury but deep breathing helps. Sometimes.

Let’s be real: kids suck a lot of the time. They really do. They test your inner core and oftentimes leave you questioning where you went wrong. They make you wonder how their once-adoring eyes could ever hold such genuine resentment of you. They continuously criticize you, and complain about you, and keep so much of their real selves hidden that you’re convinced they were swapped in the hospital. But we stick to the plan because at some moment in a lifetime a hundred years ago we, too, loathed our lame parents the exact same way. I think deep down we all know that one day this moment in time will be amusing and our Good Kid is going to return and we might actually like each other again. It’ll happen. Right?

I’m here to attest that yes, it will.

Hopefully your good days outnumber your sucky ones because – especially if your children are still small — there will definitely be some doozies to come. Just remember that despite their declarations to the contrary, we are all good moms doing our best. If you’re like me, you’re making some major-ass mistakes (letting my 11-year-old be the Beer Pong ringer at his cousin’s grad party? Perhaps not my finest mom moment) but at least we’re learning as we go.

My missteps have continued as my kids have gotten older.

I scoop wet towels off various floors and toss them in the dryer every day without washing them. Every. Single. Day.

I also cut off my kids’ cell service when I couldn’t withstand one more minute of backtalk … and then forgot to pick them up because I hadn’t heard from them.

There was also a time (only once, I swear) when I texted my kid’s coach (perhaps … not … entirely … sober) to squawk about his playing time (a side note: if you’re going to try this, which I wholeheartedly do NOT recommend, first make sure the coach is one helluva good guy). Nevertheless, not an entirely proud moment. AT ALL.

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 find it.

I wouldn’t order my daughter’s prom dress because she didn’t clean her room. And that was our deal – that it had to be Mom Clean first. But it never was. So guess what? She borrowed a dress and – gasp! – lived. If you can imagine, that scene was absolutely apocalyptic at the time (upcoming chapter entitled Got Girls? Get Wine) and (irony) I’m sure she doesn’t even remember that story now.

I’ve even changed the locks to make a rebellious teen know for damn sure that I was completely, stick-a-fork-in-me done with his nonsense.

I’m amassing a pretty extensive list but I don’t let it get me down. It pays to remember: The worst thing you will ever experience has always been weathered by someone else. I try to focus on the fleeting blips of positive. I’m pretty sure that for every really (really) lousy thing I do (or, in the case of changing sheets, don’t do), I make up for it in other ways. For instance, even though they tower over me now, I still kiss my kids a lot. And I tell them I love them all the time. I always have. The words are spoken so often that I now possess three sons who actually say it back to me even without a money transaction: in front of their friends, over their shoulders as they’re scooting out the door, and (yes, sir) sometimes even when they’re mad at me. And teens are mad a lot. One time, when it dawned on me that my moody and excessively 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. We’re moms. We’ll do whatever it takes.

My home is pretty nasty at times (here comes my pat on the back from nobody-cares-about-your-undone-chores-Oprah; you know, spoken as if she’s one of us and might have some dust in her life) but I know I’m a pretty good mom regardless. There are still moments when I watch my kids from afar. 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.

Nowadays I don’t have to write much down since I can immediately promote their perfections and pitfalls in my blogs and the super honest billboard of Facebook (insert many laughing emojis) but one thing’s for sure: these babies grow up when we’re not even looking and life is too damn short to dwell on dirty sheets and sour demeanors.

Yes, oh yes, kids do suck. But when they’re in the back seat of a (cough, extremely cool) minivan giggling over the stupidest of stupid bad-gas jokes, they suck a little less and 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. I loved those moments. It’s all about the moments.

My kids may roll their eyes at my I-pod but hell to the yeah, they know all my songs.

Now that they’re older and (* makes the sign of the cross) out in public without me, every now and then I’ll get the mother of all compliments (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 yeah, I’ll be keeping my phone charge in my underwear drawer, thankyouverymuch, because who knows, maybe I just may be onto something here.

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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/

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

A Collection of Eyerolls (A Momoir), Chapter 1: Yes, Billy Joel, We Will All Go Down Together

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Introduction

Life comes with a certain expectation of bad things. As a mom, I fully expected exhaustion and weight gain and crumbs – ridiculous amounts of crumbs, everywhere (I underestimated here). As a middle aged woman I begrudgingly expected divorce (of friends), defiance (of teens) and death (of parents). There’s not a whole lotta surprise there when it comes to the circle of life.

What I didn’t expect were the explosions of unfairness that are both unanticipated and paralyzing. The numbing cancer diagnosis of friends (worse, younger friends). The out-of-nowhere brain bleed that grips a group of friends to its core. The unimaginable loss of a child.

If I can be blunt, this past year saw a whole lotta fkkked up shttt happen around me. In addition to providing solid proof that love and friendship keeps us all afloat — it also provided a resounding wake-up a call with a simple, shrill message: Now.

Love now. Enjoy now. Embrace now. Do now.

So I am.

I am doing.

Now.

I’ve talked about writing a book since forever and I’m not waiting anymore to try to publish it. I’m publishing it right here, right now, one chapter at a time (just like Kendrick Lamar and Carrie Underwood drop tracks. I think I can be cool like that). Maybe if enough people enjoy it, it’ll catch on like the Faberge commercial (*pauses, makes mental note to include footnote explaining Faberge commercial). Maybe it’ll end up somewhere, someday. Maybe my gal Tina Fey will send me a DM.

And maybe nothing will happen. At the very least, I will show my kids that I did it before it was too late.

Because life is too short to wait.

I haven’t chosen a title yet so feel free to pick your favorite:

A Momoir: Parenting Essays to Put a Tear in Your Eye (or a Drink in your Hand)

I Love Parenting (and Other Lies…)

Kid: I Hate My Mom (Me: OMG, I Did, Too!)

And away we go!

* * * * *

Chapter 1 Yes, Billy Joel, We Will All Go Down Together

My obvious disclaimer: I am not a parenting expert. None whatsoever, of any kind. I never will be. I gave birth. Four times. That – along with a blog that perpetually pokes fun at those birthing miracles – taps my credentials. It may not be much but it’s far and wide a way better reason to heed my warnings over say, Oprah’s. I’m actually fairly particular about my own experts. For instance, I don’t want my fitness instructor or nutritionist to have a muffin top or bat-wings (I don’t actually have these professionals in my life but I feel very strongly that if I did and was handing money over to someone for vanity purposes they should without question look a LOT better than me). I also don’t want my hairstylist to have Farrah feathers either, no matter how awesome she looks. And while I may not go often (maybe a few times pre-summer to look slimmer instead of exercising) I don’t want the owner of the tanning salon to be Oompa Loompa orange. So yes, I completely understand having advice standards. I’m also personally critical of accepting guidance from anyone that can’t one-up me, so I tend to tune out other moms unless they’ve got older kids or – trump! – more kids than me. Kate Gosselin, no offense taken, you can stop reading this now, I get it (your ex, though, maybe he should?).

But here’s why you might want to keep reading this:

I am shamelessly flawed, and not afraid to show how.

I do more things wrong as a mom than I do right, yet my kids (appear) well-adjusted.

I mercilessly mock stupid parents and – because there’s no shortage of them – it makes for some funny stories.

All of that and — the bonus – to date, my kids don’t have assigned probation officers gives me some pretty ample street cred. Quite possibly, this is the support group you never knew you needed, but always wished you had. I feel when parenting’s concerned, there’s always strength in numbers and when that fails, there’s always, always wine. This book will give you both. (In the case of the wine, just pour a glass and read; I’ll bet you’ll be able to visualize me joining you. Really, I’m as good as there.)

Other qualities you might admire: I’ve never lost a kid at a mall (Disney, yes, but I won’t shoulder that blame alone: there were 14 of us…) but I have been known to lose track of my 10-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 may be some action taken.

and … I confess I have signed homework sheets that I never really checked. I’ve also feigned sleep when I heard a screaming child in the middle of the night just to allow my husband the experience of flying out of bed like a rocket to deal with it.

and … I’ve allowed electronics to entertain my brood for hours at a time, just to talk on the phone a little longer or clean my house or finish my Netflix binge.

and … I’ve been known to throw my kids out of the house on a beautiful day and lock the door behind them. True story: none died of dehydration or were snatched by a dingo.

and … when my kids peed their beds I’d simply change their jammies and flip them to the other end. (I used to know a mom who’d go mental whenever this happened. She’d rip her toddler out of bed – no matter the time – and throw her in a bath, frantically changing the sheets and carrying on like a lunatic. What a psycho. Obviously we weren’t friends for long.)

and … I will admit without shame that – until they were old enough to realize – I skipped pages of bedtime stories.

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

and … I have driven past the library only to hear a tiny voice in the back say in wonder, “Hey, I remember this place, I think I was there once…”

And that’s just the little kid stuff. Wait until you get a load of all the teenage nonsense I’ve survived (because really, have we even truly parented until we’ve taken a bedroom door off its hinges?) As a bonus, I’ve been dipping my toe in the Kids-Attempting-Adulting ocean and THAT (specatcularly!) is proving to be a supreme source of subject matter; fingers crossed, a follow up volume could definitely happen. So I’ve got a lot under my belt already. You’ll quickly see I am far from perfect. My house is always dusty 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. A profound failure at keeping baby books, I do try to write down the wonderful, embarrassing and quite ordinary things that happen in our daily lives. When I noticed my little guy’s Spongebob underwear clear through his tiny white tee-ball pants, 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 drink wine like you do at home!” much as I wanted to die, I wrote that down, too. Apparently I also wrote down that my daughter could get her ears double pierced but I don’t remember that (because I am quite certain that little minx hit me up while I was cocktailing with friends when THAT request came in). Still, it’s all good stuff.

I’m actually glad I wrote down a lot because my memory is junk. There’s something profoundly unsettling that I can recall every word to We Didn’t Start the Fire but I couldn’t tell you where my kid is going after work because he only told me three times an hour ago… Ugh. Don’t get me started. I digress…

I love all my kids. Fiercely. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t daydreamed about shipping them off to a faraway island. While kids can make us crazy, teenagers can make us alcoholics. Hell, they can make us question every certainty we know in life and can cause nervous tics just by entering a room.

So for all the moms who have ever had a child declare in a crowded yet silent waiting room that they’ve discovered your mustache …

And for all the moms who ever realized – too late — with mortified certainty that the word FART was written in Sharpie on their Thanksgiving tablecloth…

And for all the moms who have ever gotten that 2am phone call from a kid needing to be picked up “… or the police will bring me home …”

This book is for you.

Hope you’ll keep coming back.

Cheers.

* * * *

(Enoyed Chapter 1??? Don’t stop now! Keep going! …..)

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/

…. oh geeze, just get to the blog site and keep going! 🙂

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Kids, I Love You. Now Cut the Crap.

Kids & Cell Phone Obsession: 5 Ways You’re Making it Worse

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I am no different than most moms. I make a boatload of mistakes in my parenting but sometimes – way down the line when my missteps don’t seem so embarrassing – I make sure I let other moms know them (strength in numbers, gals). So I won’t mince words when I admit that when it comes to kids and cellphones, I was kind of an idiot. Past tense, for really, I feel a fool no more.

I have four kids. The older two are college age (cue in a plethora of OTHER worries, thankyouverymuch) but my younger two are teens. And boys. I know, groan, right? Teenage boys are dumb enough to begin with, let alone with access to handheld porn, but this constant connectedness before the onset of acne brings a whole new freak show to parenting. Sure there were cell phone fights with my first two but these smartphone smack-downs are ridiculously worse. These monsters we have created kids are obsessive – and it is getting completely out of hand.

It’s a huge, festering problem and most parents know it … yet can’t seem to get a handle on it. So listen, exasperated parents, and calmly repeat after me: Take back the phone, take back the kid.

A quick story: Last summer my ninth grader did a pretty stupid (alas, typical) teenage thing at the beginning of the summer. We were furious and immediately shot that parental arrow smack dab into his Achilles Heel: we took away his phone until the first day of school. That’s right. The entire summer.

Now, we fully expected a miserable 10 weeks of epic hormonal proportion and duly braced ourselves. But a funny thing happened during that time. Our kid returned. I don’t even think we were entirely aware he’d been missing so long but for certain his pleasant personality and funny disposition had been hibernating for some time. It turned into an enjoyable summer, full of conversation (remember conversation?) and eye contact (remember eye contact?) and it was nice. Really, really nice. I had an epiphany at that time and have since changed the way I parent my teens with their cell phones. So by all means, do learn from my mistakes and take heed:

Steadfast Rule # 1: Limit the phone. Every. Single. Day.

A few years ago, parents everywhere welcomed the teen cell phone. No apologies – of course we did! We could reach our beloveds at our will, know exactly when to pick them up, and ease their mortification of being the last kid standing at the movie theater. (Pretty amazing any generation ever survived that, right?) The truth is, somewhere between those dinosaur days and the present, parents have somehow forgotten that cell phones aren’t life-saving devices all the time – especially when our kids are nestled safely in our homes. It may be an adolescent way of life nowadays but cell phones are certainly NOT a necessity. What started as a means of communication to ease guilt-ridden parents has morphed into this absurd entitlement of round-the-clock entertainment. We created this beast. We need to reel it back in. Start taking phones when teens walk in the door. Bonus: You’re bound to hear more about their day if you do.

Rule # 2: Keep the Phone Nearby

Don’t have the kahunas to follow through with Rule # 1? Then take a smaller step: Don’t allow teen phones off your main floor. Especially if bedrooms are located upstairs, make sure phones are used, charged, and visible where most people congregate at all times (this holds true with computers, too). Bonus: This reduces the inevitable Mole Syndrome, where your teenager stays behind a closed door for hours, only exiting to eat.

Rule # 3: Take the phones with you when you go to bed at night.

Not-so-shocking news flash here: Kids who sleep with cell phones in their rooms aren’t really sleeping much at all. They’re sending and receiving text messages (and other nonsense) with all the other kids who also retired for the night with their phones. Mine tried to tell me he needed it for the alarm. Bull dinkies. I showed him how to set an actual alarm clock (oooh, mom’s a magician). Good grief, parents: kids behind closed doors socializing all night long? Such a ludicrous and completely unnecessary concept if you really think about it. Just say no. Bonus: Believing they’ve missed twelve hours of breaking social news, they’ll surely get up faster in the morning, too.

Rule # 4: Use a smartphone like a dangled carrot every chance you get.

Sad but true: most kids get their first cell phone before their first job, which basically means their parents are stuck working longer and harder to pay for it. I make sure my kids know that since they may be too young to be legally employed, their only “job” is to do well in school, pitch in around the house, and be an upstanding citizen. Come on now, isn’t that the very least they should be doing for the privilege of using such expensive equipment? But they’re kids – and there’s always going to be a thing or two they need to work on. To save my own life, I could not get either of my boys to bring wet towels out of their room. I’d scream and squawk about it every day of every week. Now every morning before they leave for school, in order to get their phones (which naturally are with me) I’m shown the towels they’re hanging up. Viola! An exchange of goods is made and bam, my mornings are a lot less cranky. By all means, use the force — of the phone bill you pay – to get back control: stop chasing down missing school assignments, incomplete homeworks or baskets of laundry that need to be put away. You pay for it. The privilege of using it should be earned. Period. Bonus: Easy. Life lesson of what’s expected in the real world.

Rule # 5: Know the password to get into the phone.

This might seem like a no-brainer but remember, I’m a former idiot about this. The cold hard truth is (and don’t kill the messenger here) eighth grade girls are sending pictures of their boobies to boys and boys younger than eighth grade are looking at all sorts of things worse than boobies on their phones. Honestly, (and I know I’ll get some slack for this) I don’t make it a habit of checking my kids’ texts or photos or anything really. I do allow for some degree of adolescent privacy because I am acutely aware: If my own mother ever knew some of the things I wrote (ON PAPER) to friends (AND BOYFRIENDS) there’s a good chance my internal organs would’ve melted from heated shame. But. And here’s the big but: I can check my kids’ phones at any given time. They know this, and they also know that when I put my hand out to do a random check, that phone is mine, with no questions asked. I’m not saying they’re not doing stupid thing with their smartphones (again, boys: it’s pretty much a given they are). I’m just saying that if the constant possibility of Mommy seeing it makes them think twice about doing it in the first place, I’ll take it. Bonus: Always smart to keep ’em on their toes. Always.

Listen, nothing is guaranteed here.

But kids – teens especially, crave boundaries.

We’ve got to give them some.

This is an easy fix, parents.

Take back the phone, take back the kid.

* * * * *

Read any good books lately? Start one here: A Collection Of Eyerolls: A Momoir

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/

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was featured in the 2014 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.

Girls’ll Getcha

Somebody, PLEASE Shelf That Elf Idea

2 Replies

* 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, ho … I will.