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Why I’m Saying Fkkk That Sh*t To My Milestone Birthday

BadGrannyS

I don’t believe it’s my looming milestone birthday but for whatever reason, I’ve been in a bit of a rut.

It’s not that I’m concerned about being chronologically on par with Cindy Crawford or the remaining members of the Brat Pack (that’s right, Emilio, suck it: still younger than you). I’ve just been stymied on how to keep this blog going.

You see, for years I’ve made a grand ol’ spectacle of using my kids as fodder. But now that they’re older, it’s getting harder to navigate the fine line between respectful-young-person-privacy and must-tell-all-about-their-colossal-stupidity. I spend so much time wondering, Wait, can I say that? the dueling voices in my head are in a constant smack down. It’s certainly not cool to bring up the angst and eyerolls of budding romances, right? And it’s downright inappropriate to reveal what’s been going on in their bathroom, no? And, sure, as universally head-shaking as they may be, I imagine it’s not helping their future college/employment/parole endeavors to bring to light any questionable behaviors. Gaaaaah. Damn kids, always sucking the fun out of things, amiright?

So it’s gotten me a little stuck.

I love to write and I want to keep writing so in an effort to get the creative juices flowing again I’ve decided to bite the proverbial bullet (annnnnnnnd fine, perhaps reveal my true narcissism) and shine the spotlight on myself for a change of pace (cue in sighs of relief from spouse and spawn).

As I mentioned, yes, it’s a pretty big year coming up. While I don’t feel any different than I did ten (sometimes even twenty) years ago (hellllllllllo happy hours!), I have changed some of my thinking for how this next phase of my life will go. I’m finding I’m shrugging and saying Fkkk that sh*t to a few things I used to care about but no longer do.

In my mind, I was going to reach my milestone looking better than ever. Not unrealistically — as in, allow me to reveal the height of bridal fashion circa 1991 as I spin around in my wedding gown — but rather maybe showing up for any birthday fete in a cute little dress. I even gave up drinking alcohol for a month to kick start my transformation but if I’m being honest, that lifestyle change wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I sipped seltzer for thirty days and didn’t lose a single pound. Enough said. I may still wear a cute birthday dress when it’s time but if it’s not as tiny as say, JLo’s, so be it. I refuse to stress about it. To my healthier new me I say: Fkkk that sh*t.

I’d also wanted to hit my Big One with long luscious hair that rivaled my glory days so I simply stopped cutting it for almost a year. I thought, if Sandra Bullock can hold onto her tresses on the 50+ train, why not me? Turns out, without a personal stylist and hundreds of dollars in products, it’s nearly impossible. Still, I martyred on for months – curling and straightening my split ends into a damn near fire hazard. When I couldn’t stand the sight of myself another minute, the hair was chopped into a medium, yet manageable mane that is – naturally — oh so age appropriate. To my long locks of long ago I also say, Fkkk that sh*t.

Then there’s my car. Good grief, I’ve spent the better portion of my adult life eschewing minivans and everything they stand for and I’ve kicked and screamed against ever driving one. Now with learners’ permits gaining and passengers dwindling faster than I care to admit, it’s dawned on me how much I love filling up my car with lots of bodies and enjoying the conversations that go along with that. On the eve of my milestone, I realize I don’t give a rat’s ass about the car I drive. So I got a minivan – and a really, really basic one to boot. Actually, it’s pretty ugly. But it fits all the large, smelly bodies that I’ve got precious fleeting time with. And the way lower car payment makes me happier than trendy. So, to the unsexiest set of wheels I’ve ever known, I say, too: Fkkk that sh*t.

What better way to hit a milestone than to do so screaming irony, eh?

I’m sure as I inch closer to The Date I’ll come up with more things deserving of my Fkkk that sh*t mantra.

But I’ll have to save them up so I’ve got some things to write about.

Unless of course one of my kids becomes needy for attention and I’m given permission to tell you all about his time in the principal’s office … or the girlfriend’s house … or a squad car.

Just kidding.

For now.

What say we get this Milestone Blog Year going? Tune in, comment, share, repost and join me in saying Fkkk that sh*t to all the silly things that really don’t matter at all.

Hashtag, Bring on 50.

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.

It’s Just Poop

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If you’ve got kids (heck, if you simply know kids) you’ve got poop stories. We all do.

Some are better than others. Some become legendary.

What’s amazing is how women — moms especially — are completely unfazed by them. We don’t gag, or retch or hold up our hands in an “Oh, please stop” gesture when hearing them. We nod, take another bite of our sandwich and pour another glass of whatever.

Face it: many of us have chosen to share our lives (and our bathrooms) with well, men. Gross, odorous, smelly, aromatic, reeking men. (I happen to find this to be an immensely fair trade-off: in exchange, my lawn is mowed and I don’t have to string Christmas lights. All good. Small price.) Honestly, once women have weathered diaper duty there’s little to make us put down our food (even less to make us put down our glass).

I recently found out one of my sons has a pooping bathroom. Lucky me. It’s the one attached to my bedroom.

One day he began his business in our designated ‘kids’ bathroom when a crisis occurred: midway through, welp, he realized he was in the wrong place. (I know. I’m lucky he finds his classrooms every day. Stay with me here.) Panicked, he shuffled (visual: pants around ankles) down the looooong stretch of hallway until he reached his — er, my — sanctuary. And thus finished.

He managed to clean himself up without issue – with an entire tub of Lysol wipes. THIS, people, is what makes a mom’s forehead veins pulse – not the actual poop going into the plumbing system (only mothers of boys truly know how disproportionate this amount is to a small body) but the entire tub of Lysol wipes. Before my lid flipped I made a silent deal with the devil: Satan, oh Satan, please spare my septic tank.

My kid didn’t even tell me about his adventure until hours later (the important message being — of course — that he had run down the hall with his pants down. To him, that was the story.) Naturally.

With three sons, I have no shortage of stinky tales.

Funny thing, though, when little boys eventually grow into big men their personal attachment to bathrooms continues. My husband and his friends often marvel at the grandeur of the men’s room at our local Home Depot. Apparently it’s at the top of their list of public restrooms because – newsflash – men actually spend a great deal of time in them and pffft, yes, definitely have a Top Three.

More amusing than that: when this topic comes up in mixed company (it does and you know it) there will be women who will flatly insist they’ve gone on entire vacations without ever having going once, have waited until weekend house guests have left their own homes or who have actually waited to be home from Home Depot before finding relief (no, just me? noted).

Anywho, men (cough, my husband) will continue to be completely freaked out by this.

What I’m going to find beyond hilarious is just how many people will click onto this post knowing full well it’s about poop. Just poop.

Who knows, maybe it was that cute little poop emoji drew everyone in?

Funny stuff.

(And my septic’s getting pumped on Friday.)

(actual sign in my home………)

A Million Dollar Marriage: Apparently, Not for Everyone

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A little while back we had some fun with friends reading from one of those silly books about things a person would do for a million dollars. First of all, it was eye-opening (to the point of appalling) how different the male responses were from the females. Gain 100 pounds for a million dollars? In a heartbeat, said the guys. Whaaaat? From the low-to-middle-aged (and fighting it every step of the way) group of women (all moms, I might add), a resounding: Never.

Secondly, it was interesting how vastly conflicting my answers were from my husband’s. “BUT IT’S A MILLION DOLLARS!” he cried, clearly seeing his dreams of a state-of-the-art-man-cave fade into dust. “YOU COULD HIRE A TRAINER AFTERWARDS!” I simply shook my head. Nope; not interested. But it continued.

Send a naked picture of yourself to everyone you know? (Again, no shocker: most men would do this for far less money.) Chop off a finger? Live in a room full of mosquitoes without any repellant for 24 hours? Never again cut your toenails? Apparently there are few body parts my husband wouldn’t maim for the money. I, on the other hand, held firm: nope, nope, nope. I’m certain I saw real tears escape his eyes.

It’s not that I don’t want to bask in the decadence of buying Jimmy Choos with cash, or venturing out of Target for a new shirt, or spending carelessly, without any worries (“Come on kids, whaddya say we get you those braces AND splurge on new eyeglasses?”) but I imagine it comes down to being truly content. I guess I am.

Sure there are things I want (shamefully, I might consider trading one of my children for an unbelievable pair of leather boots) but most of my wants aren’t very material things. I don’t want a maid to do the laundry but – come on — who wouldn’t want someone to come in and simply put it away? I don’t care about the newest gadgets or latest technology but I’d sure be happy with an electronic buzzer that zapped a kid’s ankle every time a towel is dropped on the floor. I don’t even think a gourmet chef preparing my meals would be all that helpful to me – I’d be quietly thrilled if my own cooked meals were eaten without fuss or commotion. Imagine that.

It’s a good thing my husband and I are a good match. He keeps playing the lottery and I keep clipping coupons. He dreams big and I find subtle elation in a great haircut or a pair of jeans feeling a wee bit looser than the previous month. And in the spirit of a happy marriage, every once in a while we meet in the middle. Rather, I cave just a little: I did agree that yes, for a million dollars I would sleep in the Amityville Horror house for a week. With wine. But that’s it.

Absolutely, that is IT.

Daughter Strong: Four Years of Reflection

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Mom doing what she loved best

My mom died four years ago today.

I no longer spontaneously cry – making beds, walking down the produce aisle, seeing commercials for cancer centers when I least expect it —

But I still catch myself absent mindedly reaching for the phone when something funny happens. You know, the house phone. I can’t really name too many people I still talk to on my house phone anymore. Even now, 1460 days later, I’m not ready to get rid of it.

I’ve honored her memory every passing year by putting into words the changes that have crept into my life in the time without her and have usually marked its passage by focusing on my kids; their size, their maturity (or, hello, teenagers: lack thereof), and their role as unknowing anchors in my unsteady journey through middle age. It’s funny; I often wonder how they’d take knowing the true strength of their super powers.

What’s heaviest on my mind on this anniversary, though, is the profound change of my emotional core. My emotions – and the things that affect me — have veered tremendously from what once was.

You know what angers me most now? When friends roll their eyes over their mothers’ forgetfulness. Or annoying habits. Or intrusiveness. Or anything, really. I find myself irritated when they complain about perfunctory – and quick – visits with their moms and I often suppress the need to scream when hearing they dutifully “have to” go see their moms for dinner, or doctor’s appointment, or — again — anything, really. It infuriates me that they just don’t get it. Or understand what others would give for one more day.

Know what makes me happy now? That my mom died so young. And quick. It’s actually a rather ironic personal admission I’ve made peace with. She was only 69 when she passed and the toxins in her body were vicious and speedy, taking her within six months from start to end. The thing is, prior to her diagnosis, she was beautiful, hipper than most her age, and stylish. Extremely stylish. She was envied for her magnetic humor, was incredibly charismatic and if I may be cliché, a treasured friend. Really and truly treasured. She was also quite the hot ticket: In sickness, when she was too weak to get to Kohl’s, she circled items out of their circular and sent me out to buy them. Shoes and bags she never did muster up the energy to use. But she had to have them.

She was immeasurably vibrant and if I’m being totally honest, I find comfort in that image being my final remembrance of her. I will never, EVER know her as a frail, feeble old lady, with white hair and stooped shoulders. I will never feel pointed sadness helping her up a flight of stairs. I won’t ever have to visit her in a nursing home and spoon feed her. And I will never know the unfathomable despair of watching her recollection of me and other loved ones fade from her memory right before my eyes. She will forever be my great-shoe-wearing, never-leave-the-house-without-makeup-wearing, always-with-awesome-accessories-wearing 69-year-old mom. And that is my beautiful image. And that makes me happy. I imagine I’m not the first person who’s lost someone too early in life to cling to this shred of positivity, so I’m not sorry for it.

Know what I care about now? Hmmmm. Not so much. I keep a firm grasp on my family, of course, and make sure we stay intact because it’s all we have and all we need. It is the good stuff for sure. But all the other stuff? Meh. See ya. Grudges, weight-gain, the-sky-is-falling hysteria of every day that screams BREAKING NEWS? I let all go. I learned how to surround myself with drama-free friends. I ask myself, What’s the worst thing that can happen? And I realize it’s not the end of the world if (pick one) a kid doesn’t go to college or a spouse loses a job or a kid drops OUT of college or the bills are piling up or the kid doesn’t play Varsity or someone snubbed someone on Facebook. Ah, what the hell, pick ‘em all. None truly matter.

Not in the least.

So I really don’t care about all that much these days. Just the good stuff.

I wish she could see how fantastic her grandkids are turning out.

I wish she could see the living room chairs I just spray painted.

I wish she could see how long my hair’s gotten.

I just miss her like mad.

And when my youngest, sitting in my passenger seat, innocently blurts out, “This song reminds me of Nanny…

I know we all do.

Call Security: A Cruise Diary Continues

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So now that it’s been some time since we returned from our cruise-that-didn’t-explode, I’m thankful I jotted down some notes during it. This whole middle-aged forgetfulness thing is really setting in now and I kid you not, it is a complete and total horror show.

So with the help of some sturdy cocktail napkins, my stories continue.

Being the consummate bargain-hunter, my husband jumped at the chance of upgrading our family (for a (cough) nominal fee) to a higher floor. What? One story higher than the Titanic immigrants for the price of a smaller, less exotic vacation? Where do we sign? Trouble is, our new cabins were – without exaggeration – located one hundred rooms apart. He was stern (with 2 kids), and I was bow (with the other 2 kids). Kind of an interesting concept for a family vacation but whatever. We rolled with it. And packed walkie-talkies.

Night One: exhausted and (still) untan, we called it a night and parted ways – obviously at the center of our floor. Nearing closer to our room, my daughter and I came upon a commotion between two staterooms. It quickly escalated into shouts of “Call security!”

Yep. STFU.

We were riveted. Youth on her side, my daughter ran for help but I stayed put (you know, the witness). You’d think it was a noble civic duty but rather it was more that I was TRANSFIXED TO THE POINT OF PARALYSIS when I looked into the room and saw a man with his hands gripped around a younger man’s throat.

I know, right? NIGHT ONE! Barely past the Statue of Liberty and we’re sailing into Crazy Town. Epic.

So while I’m giving my best “I am not missing one detail of this domestic disturbance” glare, my daughter breathlessly arrives back – with Malcolm, our affable and comedic cruise director.

Now, I don’t know what Malcolm was doing slumming down on our particular floor (and I certainly don’t know how any guy with the words “Woo Hoo” on his name plate was going to be able to assist in anything other than Bingo) but hey, the guy had a radio. He called for security. I gave him my best “You can take it from here” nod and off we went, giggling off to our room far, far away.

In the days to come, there was a security guard (of sorts) stationed outside those rooms so we felt very safe there. Malcolm, on the other hand, stayed clear.

I’m not sure how you move past that on Night One but I did see the Domestic Disturbance (“Call Security!”) Woman doing karaoke later that week so I imagine she did move on.

And there it is: my smooth-as-a-baby’s-behind segue into karaoke.

My loyal readers already know of my affinity for karaoke.

But partaking in my favorite pastime takes on an entirely new meaning when it is offered (deep breath) with a live band. That’s right.

Live.

Band.

(Shall we pause while we all wrap our brains around this?)

I could state the obvious and say that my life took on a more cosmic meaning after experiencing something so profoundly enjoyable. I could even admit that yes, I did entertain the thought of maybe ditching this whole classroom thing and becoming a singer in a band (a band of course that only played to people who didn’t mind hearing the same four songs on a perpetual loop the entire night long). And, sure, I could even brag that –especially following that nut-job from down the hall – I kinda killed it.

But I have to be completely honest.

All these things paled in comparison to the best part, hands down: when my party-of-eleven-ridiculously-awesome-family-and-friends stormed the stage — a la the finale of “Little Miss Sunshine” — and started dancing. The crowd went wild (even Domestic Disturbance Lady was up on her feet) and it was a moment, I tell you. My moment. And while regular karaoke continued throughout the week (much to my husband’s eventual boredom – nightly), the family kick-line in the middle of a Gretchen Wilson song will remain a forever memory for me (and the reason I sign notes to my kids, “Mom the Rock Star.” You know, lest THEY forget.)

Anyway, so yes, basically this cruise could’ve stayed in the New York harbor and it still would have been the bomb. Clearly when you vacation with fun people you can pretty much head to a campground or, I don’t know, the Poconos and have a ball AND save a ton of money but who knew?

I’ll stop here but I might even have to throw together one more installment because I haven’t even gotten to the Poolside Party Guy with the nine-and-and-a-half-fingers. We’ll see.

Hilarity on the High Seas

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We have returned!

As previously reported, we brazenly laughed in the face of odds (and disaster flicks) and embarked on a Carnival cruise. Surprisingly (sadly?) there was nary a floating turd on the Lido Deck so we will never be lifetime travelers courtesy of the cruise line. Ah well.

But, as duly noted on my Facebook status, we arrived home sufficiently brown, shamefully bloated and very, very broke (bar tab? No thank you. I’d rather just write out my daughter’s college tuition check since it pales in comparison).

Honestly, it was a trip. A flipping hilarious, can’t-make-this-stuff-up trip.

Here’s why….

If you think the best part about departing on a ship right out of the New York harbor was our cost-saving on airfare, you’d be brilliant, alas incorrect. Saving money is superb but vacationing with 95% of passengers hailing from New York or New Jersey trumps just about everything.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!

It was a joyous freak show of continuous people watching and I actually found myself jotting notes on napkins so I wouldn’t forget any of the details. I’ve got to be good for at least two more full-length blogs but we’ll see how this goes.

Now don’t lick the stamp on that hate letter just yet. I happen to be a born and bred Long Island girl myself — as was my sailing partner/former college roommate, Betsy. We were amongst our people. We were one of them. We had the right to mock.

And mock we did.

Maybe I could just get started on some bullet points:

* 2600 passengers on a ship and no less than 2500 tattoos. So much ridicule, so little time…

For me, the whole tattoo thing is a perpetual head-shake. 20-somethings with deep, philosophical verses (or rap lyrics) emblazoned in calligraphy all over their body? Really? You’ve already got everything figured out so decided to spell it out in a line from “Fight Club” or a Ne-Yo song? Good idea. Idiot.

And the middle-aged woman sitting at the bar with the face of Tony Orlando on her right shoulder? Hmm. You might guess we barely had anything at all to say about THAT.

Or the guy with the faces of different Transformers on the backs of each calf? Nope. Just don’t get it.

The clear winner, though: The creepy, skinny guy with G-O-D-S G-I-F-T written across his knuckles. (Mom, what do you think of my new boyfriend?) Stupidity on parade.

I could’ve easily ignored my party of eleven for the whole week just watching the tats go by. (Again, let’s go easy on the hate mail. My husband just got his first tattoo after running the NYC Marathon this year. He rocks. And his tattoo is the bomb. But to be fair, I’d mock Tony Orlando on him, too.)

* The food thing.

Sweet Jesus.

It’s actually easy to keep the pounds off while cruising if you simply follow some obvious rules:

First, simply glance around the dining room at everyone eating as if it’s their last meal. All day long.

Or, grab a seat directly across from the old man with the tracheotomy netting politely covering his well, tracheotomy, because it turns out he will, in fact, start coughing if when something gets stuck in it. Kinda makes you put down the danish if you know what I mean.

If all else fails, park your lounge chair next to the deli station that’s poolside. Besides the fact that nothing screams We Are New York!, Dammit! like the lofty smell of sauerkraut all afternoon, you may even find yourself sick to death of Ruebens by Day 2 (unless of course you’re a 14-year-old boy — then you’ll still be eating three daily up until disembarkment). At the very least, sticking poolside and watching people eat in their bathing suits is calorie counting at its most efficient.

* Interesting people abound.

Good grief, I could go on and on with stories about all the fascinating folks I stared at for eight days but I shall end with the best (and maybe continue on with others in my next installment).

We spotted The Most Intriguing Man on Board the first day at sea.

Now, if you combine Samuel L. Jackson, Issac Hayes and Linc from the Mod Squad, you might come close to how coolly intimidating this guy was. Completely (awesomely) tattooed (including his bald head – I’m telling you: BADass. There was NO mocking here), he was walking around with neon colored bungee cords slung over his shoulder. Not the stupid little kind your husband keeps in the garage “just in case” but enormous 8-feet-long ones with bright brass hooks. We assumed he was a maintenance worker because he was shirtless, with jeans rolled up to his knees and work boots. But THEN we caught sight of him that night, strolling into the adult comedy show wearing (and I don’t even think I can adequately provide a proper visual here) a bright red shirt, equally bright red PANTS, and a glittery jeweled belt, smack dab in the center. Like an international man of mystery: we couldn’t take our eyes off him.

Next day, there he was, strolling with his bungees again. At this point we were beside ourselves with curiosity (you know, because there were few others on board to fixate on. Laugh.)

Fast forward another day, another few buckets of beer and POOF! He’s hanging poolside. My gal Betsy made a beeline. It needed to be revealed: FortheloveofGod, she questioned, why the bungees???

They were (wait for it) his on-board workout routine. In the coming days he went on to delight us by actually doing his resistance training routines on the deck rails above us because – along with being the Most Intriguing Man on Board, he was also a cool, good guy and seemed happy to accommodate our shallow lives by providing a little spark. Don. From Brooklyn. The Man.

I haven’t even gotten through half of my napkin notes yet …

(… to be continued …) (obvs)

Mom’s Passed Out (or rather, Vacation Week is Here!)

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My family will be taking a vacation soon and there’s not a doubt in my mind I will be the first one asleep on Night One. We haven’t even left yet and I am exhausted. Why?

Because I’m the Mom, that’s why.

And every Mom knows: when the vacation countdown begins, if we ceased doing what we do … ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere.

We push up our sleeves with a determined “I Can DO this” mantra but the truth is, the procedural that takes place the full week before departure is outrageous. It makes me wonder why anyone ever chooses to leave their home in the first place.

The laundry? Kill me.

The packing? (Did I already say kill me?) I laughably thought it would get easier as my kids got older but now — in addition to needing bigger baggage (for bigger clothing) — I find myself in Supreme Nag Mode. Apparently I am the only household member over the age of 14 that finds it necessary to actually haul a suitcase up from the cellar before 2:00am the night before pulling out of the driveway.

The checklist of Wal-Mart runs, haircuts, dog-walker-flower-waterer-house-watcher instructions — along with the panic-inducing Don’t-Forget-to-Pack-or-the-Vacation-is-Ruined items — has me realizing I never even did the end-of-the-year backpack clean-out on the last day of school. (Quick silent prayer: Please God, let those nasty knapsacks be free of yogurt this year…) May I be totally excused? I’m going with yes, totally.

Worse than that: It was my intention to exercise my way into a respectable bathing suit by now but by the time all of the above was completed (pfffft. was there ever a doubt?) there was no time left. Now I’ve got to rely on the sunburnt-skin-turning-brown trick-of-the-eye to help me get to that goal.

Nards.

So yes, I’ll be a little tired and a little (cough) thicker than I’d like to be but I’m thinking as soon as that first icy cold margarita gets sipped, my revved up week of “Maaaaaaa, where’s my …?” will be but a blur.

We’re taking a cruise with one of my bestest friends in the whole world: my college roommate and her family. When she’s not making me look like a wallflower she will be enthralling my kids with one hilarious story after another. Each day I suspect our husbands’ lounge chairs will be purposely perched farther away from us but believe me, we are sooooo used to that.

That we’ve brazenly decided to throw caution to the wind and stick with our plans to go on Carnival – you know, the “Fun Ships” (“fun” of course questionably translating into fiery engines and passengers hurling overboard) — only shows how committed we are to having stupendous stories to share at the end of our trip. Good God — can you even IMAGINE the blogs to follow should we spy poop floating on the Lido Deck due to scary sewage fiascos?

I’m fairly certain I would finally break into the International Blogosphere if something ridiculously newsworthy befalls our ship so, by all means, keep your fingers crossed and your eyes on the CNN ticker.

My family doesn’t do trips like this often but truthfully, lately my husband and I have been invoking a Live for Today attitude. A couple of sudden deaths in the family and a handful of kids unbelievably graduating in the blink of an eye will do that.

Time is whizzing by faster with each passing year and life certainly isn’t getting less complicated as we muddle through it so … this year at least … we’re acting a tad frivolous and going for broke.

I mean that literally. But I’m also banking on this bad boy boat clipping an iceberg or something and getting a lifetime of free cruising from our friends at Carnival so really, it’ll be fine.

Just fine.

Bon voyage!!!

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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/