Tag Archives: Eyerollingmom

From BFFs to Frenemies to Crazy Ex-Girlfriends: Female Friendship is True Love OG

Happy Anniversary to my best friend!

Today, I’m marrying my best friend!

My best friend said yes!

Ewww. Stop. Just stop. Please. Scrolling through these sentiments always brings up a little bile.

I’ve been with my husband for 100 years and sure, he’s a keeper, but there’s no way he’ll ever be my top seed on my friend list. Father of the Year? Yes, no question. Great Guy 4eva? Absolutely, without a doubt. Party Starter Jazzy James & the Jazz Hands? 100 percent, can confirm. But sorry babe, there’s only so much a fella can do.

Girlfriends are the OG of pure, supportive, true love and if there’s anything more important in a woman’s life than her girlfriends, I’m ready to debate. I mean, spouses are great and kids, yay, but are they ever going to really be interested in how much I saved on those shoes? They ever ask about the coupon? Nope. Have any of them ever immediately answered a 6am text? Do they share in the fury of my white whiskers or my fifteen year-fifteen pound ‘baby’ weight or my frustrating inability to understand crypto? No, no and no. But that’s okay, really. I don’t need them in my corner for all that ~~nonsense~~ very important stuff because I’ve got my girls. I’ve been loving and leaning on my girlfriends my entire life and – can’t lie – I side-eye the gals who don’t.

Before the internet, and before cell phones, and before overscheduling ruined every weekend girlfriends hung around and did pretty much everything – and absolutely nothing –together all day long. Do they still? I often wonder, hopeful that technology, TikTok and the Vanderpumps haven’t annihilated one of life’s grandest treasures: genuine girlfriend love.

In elementary school my friends and I spent endless hours in each other’s basements writing Saturday Night Live skits (because Gilda).

We recklessly threw crooked roundoff back handsprings on our front lawns all weekend long (because Nadia).

We lounged next to oversized speakers on ugly shag carpets listening to Rumours on repeat and planned our (please oh please oh please mom, say yes) co-ed birthday parties for that year (because Stevie and well, hormones).

And we wiled away entire summers dreaming and scheming and lifting each other up. All the time. We created the World’s Perfect Girl, made up of all the best parts of us: Joan’s eyes, Nancy’s legs, Kristi’s teeth, Barbara’s nails, my hair. I may be muddy on the details of everyone else’s attributes but I absolutely remember mine because the absurd irony isn’t lost on me, as I now scoop handfuls of my thinning mop out of my sink every morning. Sad today but my Farrah feathers back then? (chef’s kiss) Epic.

We went on to be junior high friends, whose older brothers bought our beer and got us high and made sure we appreciated the whole album – not just the radio tracks – of the coolest bands.

Then we were high school friends and survived the shared, conflicting and competing distractions that always befall teenage girls that age. Even without the tether of social media to keep us connected, we hung tightly until distant states summoned after graduation. We still check in from time to time.

I struck girlfriend gold again in college, where the random luck of a dorm decision had a serendipitous effect on the caliber of friends willing to join me diving headfirst into sex, cigarettes and other poor choices. Our make-believe adult lifestyle was bound by good times: Friday happy hours that lasted until Saturday, all-nighter cramming sessions on Speed and one memorable season of intramural softball (unfathomable champions, given the aforementioned Parliaments and $2 pitchers but true story indeed).

After four fun filled years we Working Girl’d ourselves into real life and assumed the rowdy tables at each other’s weddings. We all learned how to text while nursing babies and made it into the 21^st century intact. There are godmothers amongst us.

In the course of adulting I’ve continued to add to my female flock throughout the years thanks to a myriad of jobs and neighborhoods and pee wee football and a well-traveled life. Many have settled into enjoyable social connections, but some – those who unexpectedly walked through the door of my mother’s funeral five hours away — cemented into forever status.

Being a grown woman with amazing, authentic friends is one of my greatest triumphs and the most appreciated treasure of my life – it’s also a damn good thing for my daughter to see. My closest friends keep me real and (fine) don’t shy away from calling me the B word every now and then (in my defense, just because my husband thinks I’m a bully doesn’t mean they should chime in but I allow it). Being real works for me.

Keeping real friendships isn’t always easy. Some friendships, while solid at first, do sour after time. Turns out, women have very different expectations of what friendship looks like. Finding girlfriends that share yours is a beautiful and tremendous thing.

From a Barry Manilow concert this summer I texted my girlfriend Kristi to let her know I was crying. She guessed as much. We met in fifth grade, almost 50 years ago.

Last year my Gage Hall girlfriends met for a weekend in the Catskills. Despite the years of divorces and career course-corrections and cancers our affection proved solid nearly 40 years later.

Today, my core group keeps a daily group chat going for dumb things and I love yous and the occasional I hate my husband-kid-co-worker-oven rant. It is the highlight of my day.

My friends know I will never be caught dead at a Paint Night. They know I will sometimes be persuaded to pop a gummy. And they know I will always, always be there to reply to a 6am text, praise the sale price and agree that their husband, kid, co-worker or oven is an idiot.

So I keep them close. Really, really close.

But to all the girls I’ve loved before, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t an itty bitty piece of me that still does. That’s the best part about the time passing textbook – you can choose to bookmark and highlight the good and leave the not-so-good – the betrayals, the fallouts, even the crazy – right there on the page for the ink to fade away with the years.

“I found out what the secret to life is: friends. Best friends.” – Ninny Threadgoode, Fried Green Tomatoes.

Agreed, Ninny, agreed.

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!)

Kids, In Case of Emergency Um, Find a Printer?

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I recently went on vacation out of the country. As if the stress of wrapping up work, packing, losing 15 pounds and organizing international paperwork wasn’t bad enough, I found panic and anxiety creeping in as the days ticked off to departure.

It was unavoidable: God Forbid mode was setting in.

Now, I’m not typically a person concerned with planes nosediving into the ocean. Quite the contrary. Despite being a fangirl of Lost I keep my faith firmly rooted in engineering and science and pilots. I choose fascination over fear when it comes to air travel (window seats always!) and feel flying generally works out for the majority of us. So it definitely wasn’t that. But reality and what ifs loomed heavy in my racing mind: being in a foreign land – with the time difference a half day ahead in the future from any point – I started to worry. I’ve seen many a Dateline. I suppose a lot could happen. Damn you, Keith Morrison.

I realized quite terrifyingly that – God forbid – if anything ever happened to my husband and me my adult kids would have zero idea about anything. I mean absolutely nothing. Face it. Their generation has lived primarily paper-free, with all their immediate needs and necessities accessible right in their pockets. They’ve barely touched paper money. The idea of a master file of, I don’t know, important documents, might likely be incomprehensible to them.

I needed to get my act together before that passport got stamped.

I shudder at the memory of cleaning out my mother’s house when she was dying. There was stuff everywhere. Papers tucked into nightstands; stacks of mail bound by brittle rubber bands in shoeboxes piled high in the closet; important deeds sprinkled in with toaster oven instructions and my grandfather’s army discharge papers. If her bedroom was her hidden-in-plain-sight salt mine, her filing cabinet was a Narnia wardrobe to decades gone by. Day after day of shredding every phone bill from 1991 and squinting to decipher handwritten notes and faded ink left me adamant: never would my children ever have to go through this nightmare.

So I started off hot. As soon as I returned home from her funeral I went through my own files and tossed out all the junk and nonsense. I have four kids; there was a lot of nonsense. I managed to collect everything of importance into one lone box, hauled my own filing cabinet to the dump and felt pretty good. Then I forgot all about it.

As my trip neared, it dawned on me that none of my kids knew this box existed, let alone that there might be fairly crucial things to glean from its contents. Good grief, they didn’t even know my trusty hiding spot for the spare house key. Ohmygod, I panicked, we might be fkkkkked. I sat down and started frantically typing out account numbers and insurance policies and contacts and listings of bills on autopay and – right??? Who’s kicking herself for never having done this?

I debated who to send my missive, aptly titled, Important Information. Should it be my eldest son? I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t paid his parking tickets from three years ago. He might be a fugitive. He was out. My daughter? She still calls her dad when the check engine light comes on and she’s across the country. Let me think about that one. The youngest? He’s finishing college so is technically the only one still living home … but he’s literally in the emergency room getting stitched up from stupidity every few months so that’s a hard no. Forget the middle son. I think he still keeps his social security number written on a tiny scrap of paper in his wallet.

My daughter won the short straw and let me be clear, she was not amused. She reacted to the email immediately.

Why are you sending me this? was her curt response.

Just in case, I replied, adding in a fingers-crossed emoji.

I felt better. My husband asked if I’d also sent any of them our flight information. Bless his heart. As if any would ever track our departure or even have a clue what day we’d return. I finished my doomsday to-do list by writing farewell love texts to all my loved ones, took a deep breath and went far, far away with a little peace of mind.

Spoiler alert, we returned home safe and sound. I have every bit of confidence my daughter never even glanced at the contents of the hot potato email but that’s okay. It was hastily thrown together and (rubs hands together) I know I can make it better.

No doubt my kids will be super excited at the idea of more paper.

In Memoriam: Waving Goodbye to Resolutions

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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!)

Outsmarted by Mom? Pfft. Always.

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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.

***

*Disclosure: I submitted this piece to a bi-annual Erma Bombeck contest which is sponsored by the sweet local library in her sweet little hometown in Ohio. It was my first time and I gave it a shot. It wasn’t selected but after reading the sweet winning entries I can guess if I ever try again I’ll leave out the hitchhiking, evading police and lying to parents parts (laughing emoji). Lesson learned! Next time, next time!

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!)

https://www.facebook.com/Eyerollingmom

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

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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)

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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.

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

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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 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/

Chapter 14: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2021/04/03/a-momoir-chapter-14-this-good-mom-survived-a-bad-kid-spoiler-alert-you-can-too/

Me, My Mom & the Stink Eye

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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 keenly aware of this 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 that 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. 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!) 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. 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, 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 in a few weeks, *smugly types with emphasis*) 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 taken down her stink eye. Nonsense averted.

Boy, oh boy. Imagine my field day of smugness if she was here today having witnessed 2020.

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.

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/

Gone 9 Years: A Toast to My Mom (Who is Definitely Not Digging My Present Attire)

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xmas fam

My mom died nine years ago today, a few weeks shy of her 70^th birthday. Her own mom died at 69 also. Even though I’m not a chain-smoker (since adolescence, you know, the norm back then) and keep (relatively) healthy, there’s not a doubt in my mind when my own 70^th birthday is on my horizon I’ll be holding my breath on the way to that (obviously) momentous milestone. I hear that’s a pretty profound moment in any child’s life.

69 is way too young. Especially when you are (relatively) healthy (chain-smoking notwithstanding), still incredibly stylish, newly-retired and just returned from a 1^stever trip to Europe. Really. It’s just not fair.

69 is way too early. Especially when your youngest grandchild is still a toddler and the whole slew of older ones are in the throes of expertly keeping your kids exasperated. Damn, if you could only see them all now. All 10 of them. We were all together this past Christmas and man, your heart would’ve exploded with happiness and pride. So unfair

69 is way too untimely. You had finally mastered your flip phone but had barely tried texting. Of course you’d still be watching Law and Order but I think you’d really like Netflix.

Funny, the things a daughter won’t forget. When my sister and I had endless babies crying and walls of crayon and strewn cereal and crap everywhere …. you’d gently remind us to comb our hair before our husbands got home from work. If you were here today you’d definitely be dissing my overalls and oy vey, would have never kept silent during my gal’s Free to Be You and Me unshaven armpits stage. (I’d get the full blown disappointment; the granddaughter would get the hall pass. Naturally.)

You made sure we never picked out a funky dish pattern because it was important how food looked on it. It was also important that the food colors be pleasing to the eye (no carrots and sweet potato together—too much orange!). Funny, I’ve never had anything but white dishes. Just another little something that somehow stuck.

I think about all the nuggets of knowledge I gained from you during our not-long-enough time together. Your little tolerance for self-pity. Your tenacity to get things done, figure things out, keep moving forward. My childhood friends still remember you in admiration, still shudder at the memory of your cool exterior and, always, still admit in amusement how nice it was to see you soften throughout the years. You lived a tough life yet never let a series of unfortunate events define your path.

You taught me dogged determination. And fierce loyalty. And unwavering strength. You showed me how to plow through obstacles and brush aside setbacks because, get over it, it’s not the end of the world. It’s never as bad as someone else may have.

I miss her all the time but especially in the dog days of summer, when the bell tolls on the anniversary date. All the memories of all those long days and nights come rushing in and the weight of all the what-might-have-beens is crushing. The last hot night I spent with her in her home is seared into me. When she fell on her way to bed and couldn’t lift herself up anymore I knew. When I couldn’t lift her up all by myself either I knew. I held the phone and agonized, pausing before dialing because I knew. I knew once I entered those digits and that ambulance arrived, my mom would never again step foot in her house again.

She never did. And I’ve never forgotton the anguish of that decision. Funny, the things a daughter won’t forget.

Nine years. A lifetime ago. Back before all my kids were (gulp) grown-ups. Back when I had a 10 year old. And 12 year old. And 16 year old. And 17 year old.

I am no different than anyone else whose heart stays heavy over a lost loved one. I feel her most days and talk to her more. Usually just a quick Thanks, Mom when something goes right or a sarcastic Thanks Mom when a kid’s being a smartass.

I was talking with my sister recently and was having a bit of a moment. I’d just found out I had qualified for a sizeable mortgage all on my own, without the need of a co-signer. Just me. I know, right? Like I said, it was a moment. I was trying to explain to her what that felt like. I struggled finding the words.

“It’s like …” I began.

“…you’re Mom,” she finished.

My breath caught.

Yes.

Yes, I suppose that could be true.

Cheers, Mom. My hair’s combed and I’ve ditched the overalls today. Just for you. xoxo

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/

A Momoir, Chapter 13: Covid Edition (or rather, Still Not Skinny)

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I started this pandemic the same way everyone else did. Well, obvs not everybody. I mean, I never ranted about wearing a face mask or crazily demanded my right to get a haircut but hey, ‘merica. Like many, I settled in for the long haul and tried to let go of the things that were entirely out of my control. I bid adieu to my colleagues, embraced the return of my college kids and (the worst) said sayonara to my shoes. I stayed-in-place like a good little girl scout and stopped caring about a lot (A. LOT.) of stuff.

Instead, I decided to use this quarantine time to reset. From the get-go I committed to focus on two things: gratitude and improvement. I wanted to see a difference in myself when this was all over and (well, have we met?) sure, make a splash and pop out of a cake at the end of it a better, greater version of Me. Skinnier, blonder, vegan? Who knows, but, dammit, I was going to be ready for my before-and-after close-up when this was behind me.

Well this long haul has turned into a Saturday night Easter vigil mass with four children in tow (ever been to one? Here, little nine-year-old, hold this lit candle for … awhile… GAH, only once friends, only once) – in other words, no end in sight — so here we are.

Since this pandemic is so very far from being over I decided to document a quick update.

I am currently in my fifth month of working from home and (plot twist) am neither blonde nor thin and if you know me (#bacon) will never, ever be vegan.

But I think I am better.

For starters, I haven’t faltered from feeling grateful. I’ve been grateful since Day One, if solely for bypassing that Nightmare that was Homeschool. Holymotherofgod did I dodge a bullet there. Not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought about the remarkable teachers and parents forced to reinvent the education system as we know it and whispered thanks daily for escaping that terrifying ordeal. God bless you all who did the homeschooling thing.

I was grateful for my job, my family’s health, my abundance of leggings (thanks, Steph) and my secret love of being a homebody. Sheesh, I could’ve written that viral piece of Gen X/1980s kids thriving in the seclusion of a pandemic. Stay at home? Keep yourself entertained? All the time? Joke’s on you, life: been there, crushed that. I was all in. Our nightly family dinners returned. My kids were, well, around more. Life became simpler.

Gratitude was a breeze.

So I got busy improving.

I stopped bothering with make-up and started reading — more books than I’d read in the past five years.

I stopped cutting my bangs (sorry, Marie Osmond, you’re left to carry the torch for our 50+ cohort) and started wearing Birkenstocks (I know, right? Ladies, lock up your husbands).

I stopped mindlessly checking my phone and started doing more crossword puzzles (but yes, fkkk those Friday ones. I threw the damn book away when those were all that was left and switched to another).

I stopped driving (once a week only, for groceries) and started walking 10,000 steps a day. When that became normal I shot for 15. Then 20 (again, still not any thinner so wtf but *sighs* we don’t have time to unpack that).

As the world’s pandemic fears morphed into a global awakening to racist injustice I committed to becoming more educated and turned to the people I admire most in the world for guidance: my kids.

I began listening to what they were listening to. Started reading what they were reading. Started watching what they watched (not entirely true. I will never watch that Avatar cartoon no matter how good it may be).

The podcasts getting me through my monotonous daily paces turned political, and I switched from true crime to Trevor Noah. And Pod Save America. And the NYT’s The Daily.

On television the void following my obsessive Outlander binge (oy! 5 seasons start to finish! Droughtlander here I am!), suddenly filled with Netflix documentaries. Stunned to my core by the appalling injustice of 13^th^, I was equally stirred by the peace depicted in Woodstock. The parallel themes of countercultures triggering dramatic change are an eerie nod to our present day cultural discord.

I wandered from the once-fluffy, now-fanatical Facebook and found my way back to Twitter and Instagram, where I started following educated and interesting people that have opened my eyes enormously. (No offense Facebook but you have become the Vortex of Aging Negativity and while you were fun for a while and I do still enjoy seeing the lives of my real (not faux) friends … let’s say there’s a reason the young people never really climbed aboard.

When the shocking behaviors of the country’s racist, caught-on-camera Karens started turning my stomach, I became obsessed with the Internet Detectives, the online superheroes who deftly and immediately expose each atrocious offender by publicly posting their names, addresses, license plates…. (I fanatically love this and cannot lie).

So sure, I’ve been ballin’ but my personal eat-pray-love renaissance hasn’t been all meditative serenity and yoga poses. Please. Far from it. With a son working as an EMT, there’s been a steady stream of mom-worry. I miss him. Also, we were hardly immune to the economic pitfalls brought on by Covid and still find ourselves running in place trying to grapple with financial stress and uncertainty.

Our home, put up for sale shortly before the lockdowns commenced, still sits on the market. While we once dreamed of downsizing, our new normal has flipped the switch on that idea; the oversized house we felt lost in not so long ago is now filled with people on computers all day long. We’ve found ourselves in a perpetual state of pause.

Employment was lost. Worse, it was lost a few months after the quarantines took effect, which means not only were we thrust into an already overloaded, log-jammed system that is excruciatingly flawed but (wait! there’s more!) the “bonus” pandemic money is now used up so ….cool, right? My business-owner friend couldn’t get her teenage employees to return to work because they were making a killing on unemployment. I’m super glad all the kids are making more money than they’ve ever seen in their short lives because fun fact: we haven’t seen a dime yet. If I did have bangs they’d probably be silver sooo….

Truth, it really (REALLY) sucks but even still, I remain grateful.

We flew our daughter back for a couple of weeks to work from our home (hey, come join us so you, too can complain about the internet!) and we hunkered down some more as an even bigger family.

We’ve been drinking wine, playing games, listening to Hamilton, watching John Mulaney stand-up and just being.

Just being a family.

And it’s been real nice.

What will you remember most about when the world changed?

We remember where we watched the OJ chase.

We recall exactly where we were when the towers fell.

And we’ll all know precisely who we focused on when Covid came to town. The President? Governor? Fauchi? Kimmel?

I was watching my kids.

During this ultimate gift of time I’d be a fool not to.

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.

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/