Tag Archives: Family

A Momoir, Chapter 21: College Bound – Gone Like a Freight Train

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“She (we gave her most of our lives)

Is leaving (sacrificed most of our lives)

home.” — The Beatles

“She’s gone, I’d better learn how to face it.

She’s gone, I’d pay the devil to replace her.” — Hall and Oates

“Gone like a freight train.” — Montgomery Gentry

The girl has left the building.

Off to her tenth floor dorm room in the most congested section of her rolling and rural D1 campus. There might be more occupants on her floor than were in her graduating class.

She is stoked, on her way to change the world and no one – no one – who knows her is surprised.

She spent her last summer here like a ghost. Working around the clock with her three jobs, I’d sometimes go a couple of days with only the smell of her shampoo whizzing past me.

She was a blur.

Looking back I realize it was probably the world’s cosmic balance that did this, forcing me to get used to her not being around.

She’s been restless on her journey out of adolescence and that restlessness had been swelling at a NASCAR pace. By the time the last of the graduation party fire pits had smoldered she was done with her insignificant, small town.

I get that (she is her mother’s daughter after all).

I waited a couple days after we dropped her off before venturing into her room. To be completely honest, I could’ve gone in with a steam cleaner or a backhoe (cue in knowing nod from every mother of a teenage daughter). It was baaaaaad. I had bitten my tongue the last few weeks of summer because I just wanted a nice, argument-free send off. It was stressful enough just getting to departure day so I let the room go into zombie apocalypse/Area 51 locale.

Still, as the hours ticked away on her final night at home, I could tell her anxiety was revving — as witnessed by the psychotic and shrill “WHERE’S MY INSURANCE CARD???? (and then, ten minutes later, barely audible), Oh, here it is…”

That happened a few times.

She left in a breathless whir of excitement and anticipation for a new chapter and it was everything the books say it should be: melancholy, bittersweet, and (far be it for me to lie) a little bit of can’t-wait on both of our behalves.

I sent my oldest son off to the Air Force Reserves a couple of years ago so this certainly isn’t my first rodeo of shipping a kid off. With him it was different, though. Where she is restless, he was reckless. Seriously, I never slept so well as the day he was safely nestled in boot camp (cue in knowing nod of every mom of a reckless teenage boy). So I know a thing or two about missing my kids.

I find myself being so genuinely excited for her I don’t miss her as painfully as I thought I would. She checks in often enough (way more than she did while she was here full time) she’s providing more detail about her experiences than even asked for, and basking in the pretend-grown-up-lifestyle that she’s been so desperately craving. (To be clear, I am fully aware this will come back to kick me in the arse when she returns for winter and summer breaks. I know the Rules? What is this notion of rules you speak of? litigation is percolating. For sure, good times are a-comin’…

So while she’s gone I will wait patiently for her next call or text, and savor each tiny daily victory that finds me NOT rushing around like a madwoman each morning looking for my comb … or cream … or mascara … or beige sandals with the cork heels (why look for them when they are without question in her dorm room?).

For the time being there are no wet towels on her floor.

… yet I don’t have anyone to watch “Rock of Ages” with each and every time I find it on cable.

… and my heart feels a little pinging sensation when I realize – with surprising sadness – that I don’t have to special order a vegetarian dish when we order take-out.

… and I am decidedly NOT smelling expensive shampoo so much (Old Spice and Axe, yes. Herbal Essence? Nope.)

But I know she is only gone for a while.

And I miss her. A lot.

As I was wrapping up this piece another text from her came through which read simply,

“I miss you guys.”

See that?

Maybe all that Lunatic-Fringe-Psycho-Mom-Get-Me-Outta-Here stuff isn’t brimming on the surface anymore.

Maybe she heard an 80s song from “Rock of Ages” and thought of me.

Maybe after getting my picture text, she’s a little excited to sleep in her clean room at Thanksgiving.

No matter the reason. You know I’m saving the text.

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!)

You Should Never Argue with a Crazy Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma, You Ought to Know By Now…

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I had four kids in seven years and right about now’s the time when that little stroke of brilliant timing (or lack thereof) is kicking me in the ass. My youngest is 13 (I just watched him eat twice since dinner ended. No. Wait. He here comes again…) and my oldest will be 21 in a few weeks (he believes that anything in the ballpark of that number gives him the green light to crack open beers in his room. Then throw the empties under his bed. Yeah. I may be down to three kids soon. I digress…). Throw in a 15-year-old (who spends more time grooming himself than his five family members combined) and a free-your-mind, what’s-the-big-deal, 19-year-old college sophomore (who has yet to meet a house rule that “makes sense” to her) and you can see why I’ve gotten a bit testy this summer.

In a nutshell, I’ve got a crew of kids coming and going at all hours, eating incessantly and displaying less-than-favorable teenage behavior, all while leaving a trail of clothes-dishes-wrappers-towels-slop in their wake. It’s making me see a shade of red which far surpasses the sunburn on my side boob (because really, isn’t there always that one spot you miss?).

Eventually though, somewhere in the dog days of summer (like now), when I have tripped over my final straw of strewn sneakers, my testiness turns to rage.

When my good nature is taken advantage of – I won’t sugarcoat – I get pissed. I start to reflect on the good life I provide for them. Then I think about all the cooking and cleaning I do, as if I’m running on some sort of masochistic hamster wheel. Then I begin to fixate on all the things they don’t do (if only that damn dog didn’t don his invisibility fur all summer maybe, just maybe they would know he’s here!). Then, finally, when I realize my simple house rules are broken to the point of parental ridicule, well then I become incensed.

Psycho Mom used to make an appearance during times like these. She’d rant and rave and carry on like a crazy woman and take away electronics and ground any kid in her peripheral and maybe in time she’d regain control for a little while longer. These tactics still work for the teens; I’ve duly hidden my boys’ X-box until their summer reading is finished and one kid’s already lost his phone for the entire summer for being a dum-dum. But as kids become older sometimes the game rules have to change. If you’re raising your young adults like I am (see my 5 tips from an earlier post), your kids are already making financial contributions to your household. It’s hard to ground a kid who’s driving around in his own car that’s insured by his own dollars. Tricky indeed.

So now Ball-Buster Mom pops by instead to take over the disciplinary reins. Example:

My husband and I recently took our two youngest away for the weekend, leaving the two young adults at home to proceed with their employment obligations, take care of the invisible dog and well, act like responsible young adults. Left behind with them was a litany of clear (VERY clear) instructions and expectations.

About that…

I won’t bore with the details (hell, I’ve already been to this rodeo and have written about it here) but let’s just say that within six seconds of entering my home upon our return, the young adults were busted.

Friends staying over without our knowledge, approval or consent? Check. Partying like it was 1999? Ha! Been there, done that! Stop denying – despite your insistence to the contrary, that one little bottle cap under the toaster oven screams otherwise, so…again… Check.

So the guilty were charged accordingly. Since they both used my home like a hotel room, they were each made to ante up the cost of one: $125 a piece.

As a receipt for their weekend play, they were given full disclosure and sage advice: Should it ever happen again they’d likely be charged quadruple that amount and would find themselves on the needy side of some pretty hefty finances. Last I checked, those student loans had co-signers on them. Just sayin’.

So Ball-Buster Mom made $250.

She’s probably going to put it aside and use it to get to Long Island in September when her high school reunion takes place. Then she’ll tell everyone this story and yuk it up with all her old friends who did the exact same thing back in the day.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Boston Globe & Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as Eyerollingmom/Tina Drakakis on Facebook, Instagram & Threads. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

One Year Gone

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My mom died a year ago today.

I’ve written – briefly — about some of that journey but have mostly focused on all the beautiful friends that buoyed me afloat during that time. But to write about the experience as it affected my core? No. To quote a colleague who went through a similar ordeal just a few years before me, “Nope, can’t even go there yet. Cannot go there.” I understood it completely and still do. There are no words yet.

A lot can happen in a year’s time. Hell, a lot can happen in half a year’s time, as witnessed by the soul splintering timeline of my mom’s final six months.

To honor this subdued – yet utterly important and significant – anniversary I can reveal what I’ve learned about calendar years.

In one whole year you can witness your 17-year-old son become 18 by making a conscious and physical decision to leave behind the poor choices that saddened his mother so. You can watch him become a responsible man right before your very eyes and question why you ever doubted him.

In a year’s time you can watch your 16-year-old daughter become 17 by navigating relationships (relationships that seem to desperately define adolescence) with the grace and maturity of a woman far beyond her years. You can think that she couldn’t possibly become any more beautiful with each passing month. But you would be wrong.

In 365 days you would believe it is a devilish trick of the eye that has caused your 12-year-old’s shoe size to surpass that of his father as he reaches 13 years old. To share this fact with him, you could look up to tell him, for he now leans down to kiss you. This will make you amused. And melancholy.

In a calendar year you can observe your baby – for he will always be your baby – blossom from 10-years-old into an even more likable, adored, and sought-after pain in the butt 11-year-old (have I mentioned he’s the youngest?). You will realize that his personality is emblazoned from seeing – and hearing – more than his siblings did at this age. For this, you will continue to shield him from their merciless taunts, so that forever they will think you are favoring him.

Throughout the 52 weeks you can ascertain that life most definitely is NOT fair, nor is it supposed to be. My sister and I now shoulder the responsibility of caring for our 90-year-old step-father. That he has survived four strokes, emphysema, open heart surgery, a pig valve AND was 20 years senior to my mom will only bolster this concept.

In twelve months you can gain immeasurable wisdom about what is important in life. You can evaluate friendships with a keen eye: assess which ones are fulfilling, which are frivolous, and which are insufficient.

You can – and will – enjoy simpler things, and quiet moments,

You can – and will – laugh (please see above mentioned reference to 90-year-old man).

I used to pray. Now I just speak directly to my mom and I know she hears me. I am convinced that last month, before my little leaguer hit his very first home run of his life, it was my incessant and silent pleas to her that helped this ball over the fence. “Come-on-mom, come-on-mom, help-him-out-mom, come-on-mom, help-him-do-this mom …”

She did. And I think she’s done a lot for us this year. Jobs, health, happiness, you name it. I’ve named it: mom.

I miss her.

I miss just talking to her.

And she missed some pretty great things this year.

Of course she really didn’t miss them. We just missed her joyful reaction to them.

So as we’ve gotten through our calendar year of firsts — her birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, her anniversary, and – the worst — her 10 grandchildren’s birthdays, when their customary $25 arrived with only one signature on the card – we’ve always toasted her.

And we will today, too.

Because no one is laughing more than her right now at the three-ring circus she’s left behind (please see above reference to 90-year-old man). Without a doubt in my mind, she is laughing her ass off right now.

Love you, Mom.

Keeping the Peace: 5 Things Your High School Graduate Needs to Hear

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Nothing screams middle age like having high school graduates for kids. And nothing screams may-not-make-it-to-old-age like the arguments that ensue once these kids have tossed a tasseled mortarboard into the air. If you have the pleasure of living with young adults under your roof, pour a glass and make sure there’s ink in your printer. Remember seeing your mom’s yellowed Dear Abby column taped to the fridge? You may want to start up that tradition.

If living harmoniously is your goal, then without question, these 5 things need to be said to your (eyeroll, sigh, shudder) young adult:

You will contribute financially to this household.

You can call it rent, room & board or even appreciation fees. Whatever it’s called, something should get coughed up each week and it has little to do with the obvious fact that everything increases with every warm body that is planted in a home. Food, water, electric, cable, everything. That’s a no-brainer. The more important reason for pitching into the household is because you should, that’s why. Period. Throw in a few home cooked meals and access to unlimited laundry and geeze, you’d be up a creek if you had to pay for all this stuff outside of this home. Be happy to hand over a minimal yet reasonable amount. — even if it’s an occasional pizza. Fun fact: we can see your trail of food wrappers – we know how adept you are at buying your own food! Double down on the Dunks, saunter in with some subs or take charge of the taco tab. The gesture is immeasurable. And you’re right: we don’t NEED your money. This is irrelevent. You don’t see it now but our absurd and unfair demand to contribute to your family is building character — as well as an appreciation for what things cost, of which you truly have no idea.

This is my house, therefore it is MY bedroom. You get to sleep in it.

You are welcome to enjoy continued privacy in this space that is covered under my mortgage payment, so long as you respect this space. Foul smells coming out of it render your privacy null and void. The detection of wet towels, food items or ANY suspicion of conduct unbecoming also nullifies the terms of your privacy.

We are your family, not your room mates.

Picking up after yourself is a sign of respect for those who live among you. Not doing so is a blatant sign of immaturity which indicates you simply do not understand this. No one wants to see hairs in a sink, step on toenail clippings or find food, utensils, blood, body parts or schmegma in the bathroom. If people can figure out what you’ve eaten for breakfast based on the remains left on the kitchen counter, you are being rude. The maid is far too busy pruning the money tree out back. Put stuff away and get rid of your own mess. Common courtesy, that’s all.

Rules are in place for respect, not ridicule.

We get it. We were there once, too. You’re not the first kid to shriek about all the humiliating injustices of your parents. But if you’ve been given a curfew, it’s likely because you’ve given us reason to enforce one. If you’ve been given limits on the car you’re driving, the same holds true. The easiest fix for this is to start doing what’s requested of you, understand the importance of proving your maturity through actions over words and earn OUR respect. Want to come and go at your own leisure? Simple solution: buy your own car and pay your own insurance.

Being over 18 doesn’t make you a grown up.

Please. Stop stomping your feet, diploma in hand, and screaming that you’re an adult now. It only makes us giggle. The only thing you’ve accomplished to date is getting through high school. Big whoop. It’s the 21^st century, filled with technology that practically reads the books for you. You’re supposed to finish high school. Whatever path you’re on right now doesn’t detract from the reality that you are presently living with your mommy and daddy and you will not – cannot – be considered a grown up under these amusing circumstances. Until you are financially independent you are decidedly NOT a grown up. Don’t be mad. Don’t sulk. And don’t ever be foolish enough to think the grass is greener elsewhere. I defy you to find a living situation better than here (yet if you do, I will most certainly help you pack your things). My motivation is solely love. I am doing my part in preparing you to be a decent human: a good wife, mother, or husband, a stellar employee, an upstanding citizen or an under-the-radar inmate.

You. Are. Welcome.

Love,

Mom

It’s Hard Staying Hip with a Web of Naked Grannies

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I own four older kids so I consider myself fairly seasoned. While little sends me into a complete tailspin, I have to admit, keeping up my façade as a hipster mom is tough work. (You feel me, bruh?)

I understand silly practices and passing fads and cultural missteps.

But there are some things I just do not get.

Crazy, controversial pop stars? Oh, I totally get them. Please. Hard as she tries, little Miley and her rebel tongue can’t hold a candle to my generation’s bat biting Ozzy, or our Milli Vanilli mega-scandal – even our evil Madonna and her hairy armpits (and hey! her unruly pits are back – and she’s like, 70! You go gurl!). So I get the nutty need for spotlight and notoriety. Twerk away, you silly, silly children.

What I don’t get is the svengali-like hold Tik Tok influencers have on, well, everyone. I mean, a herd mentality of being okay with fake designer duds isn’t necessarily a bad thing, sure. But getting all the kids to chug Tide and dangerously lethal Doritos? That’s just generational embarrassment.

I get the craze of do-it-yourself projects (declares this DIY reality TV has-been) … but I don’t get Pinterest. To me it’s merely a junk drawer of activities and recipes that will never see the light of day, kinda like my own little failure cupcake frosted with optimism.

I get helicopter parents (because I personally know a ton of teenagers that couldn’t place a coffee order correctly let alone apply to college without help) so I really don’t get the entitlement that comes with some of these coddled dum dums. Kids are meaner than ever to each other, they’re ruder than our parents ever would’ve tolerated and their parents are all over social media defending bad behavior, blaming EVERYONE else and acting just as bad. I don’t get this at all, whatsoever, not for a minute.

I get that the internet has become this gigantic billboard for personal achievement and in-your-face braggadocio and honestly, I’m fine with that. I’ve been known to post some good news — or better, the elusive I-don’t-look-fat–in-this photo so up it goes! once or twice. Over the top bragging isn’t a crime and some days it’s downright hilarious, thanks to all the folks who haven’t yet realized their kids aren’t nearly as cute as they imagine, so I’m a fan. No harm no foul.

But.

And this is a might big but.

I do not – and can not – and will not – ever understand the act of average people using the internet to post unbelievably awful and (wait for it …) NAKED pictures of themselves.

Funny story about how I might know this:

Being of a certain age, I’ll be the first to admit social media is a herculean task. The tweets, the shares, the posts, the blogs, the tumbles, the hashtags, the pictures, the OhMyFreakingGodEnough! staying visible and relevant on the damn inter-web is a full-time job. For a generation that wasn’t born sucking on an I-Pad, mastering all this techno wizardry is really the pits.

Still, I trudge on, every month or so trying to tackle another little tidbit of cyber success. I get myself on Twitter or set up a Tumblr account, whatever I can learn on my own (because hello, there’s only so much once can ask her kids before losing massive amounts of street cred). So yay me.

But the problem is, I’ll do all this techno trailblazing and then sorta forget about it all for awhile. So I basically have no idea what’s going on with any of these social media feeds for long stretches at a time. Shamefully, my hipster-meter drops into the danger (aka lame) zone during these times.

But every now and then I’ll become inspired and will check on all my accounts. At first I’d simply chuckle at my X-rated Twitter followers. Why HotCumDelight would want to follow Eyerollingmom is a mystery to me, but hey, a follower’s a follower. Why should I care? Woo Hoo, my 49 fans just jumped to 50? Let’s go!

One day (out of boredom? curiosity? a bathroom break? can’t remember) I actually clicked on a follower from one of my accounts and was shocked to the point of revulsion. Porn site, you ask? Nope. Worse.

It was a place where average women posted naked selfies of themselves. I’m talking naked and knowing – as in smiling at the camera – in all states of lewd poses. Women of all ages (shudder, a grand amount of Golden Girls included) happily allowing another person to take their nasty naked picture. Then posting it onto the world wide web.

Yikes. It scarred me so deeply I had to stay off my laptop for almost 30 minutes.

If seeing granny’s gems or Aunt Sylvia’s stretch marks is going to keep me hip, sorry folks, it’s back to Nerdville I go.

Ick, ick, ick.

The Legend Of Lee: Grandpa Eggo Forever

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Now that my step-father has passed away, I am parent-less. It very well may be that the idea of this is more unsettling than the actuality of it.

As many adult children will concur, when a parent is sick it is all consuming. Your own life becomes a secondary area of maintenance. You rely on spouses and friends and neighbors to ensure everyone is fed and transported while you tend to your beloved mom or dad or, in this case, step-dad (which puts a slightly different spin on things, which I’ll get to in a bit).

Illness, even while happening at a snail’s pace, oddly blurs through your life at a breakneck speed. But when illness has taken its ultimate toll and you’re done plowing through arrangements and funerals and logistics and planning … it’s still some time before you notice the finality of events.

Suddenly one day you’re no longer worrying about a sick parent. Or any parent. And it’s kind of a weird thing. As a parent, with parents, I had many roles. Now, not so much.

When you do focus on your family again you might notice – really notice – that your kids are taller, or your dog’s fatter or your home’s exterior paint looks pretty crappy. You can move forward and tend to things you hadn’t given much thought to in a long, long time.

It’s a new page in a new chapter.

And it startles me that the act of putting together photo boards for a wake makes me realize how few pictures I’ve actually taken the time to print out of late. Stupid smartphone.

The short story, still chock full of irony, is that my mom passed away almost three years ago, leaving behind her husband, my step-father – a man 20 years older, in failing health, and completely in the throes of elderly entitlement and negative outlook. He was pushing 90 at the time of her death and had lived the life of a quintessential old school husband – completely assuming that any female in the room might be happy to fix him a plate of food or gladly accept the wad of cash (his salary) that he’d hand over in exchange for taking care of him completely.

Saddled with the reality that he could no sooner walk to the mailbox than live alone, there was more than one occasion when my sister and I looked at each other with a “wtf?” glare of disbelief. My mother had a wicked sense of humor. (Well played, Mom, well played.) We took care of him from the minute she was gone and (with great patience) journeyed with him for two years, nine months and nine days until he was able to get to where he really wanted to be; back by her side.

He came into our lives while we were ensconced in adolescence, a knight in shining armor to a single mother of three children, and we treated him with the indifference any teenager might have. So long as he didn’t interfere with our Friday nights in the Burger King parking lot, what did we care who he was or what he did?

But what he did was nothing short of amazing.

He put my mother on a pedestal for more than 30 years. He taught us to drive. He absorbed every icy shout of “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” we could hurl. And with every infuriating and bigoted nuance of his personality (“…please stop calling them colored people, it’s been frowned upon for a long time now…”) we came to love him deeply.

He walked my sister and I down the aisle.

He was present for the births of 10 grandchildren.

He never gave up on the Mets.

He ate 4 Eggo waffles with his coffee every morning before 6am, securing the adored “Grandpa Eggo” into our vernacular for always.

And yes, with his nifty black glasses on, he resembled Carl Frederickson from the movie “UP.”

We will forever smile at that.

He was a kind and decent man and lived a full life with the woman of his dreams and a family that embraced him. I am not saddened that he’s gone because while putting on a brave face, he has been lost and aimless and miserable living in a world without my mom. But I can’t help but be a bit melancholy, though, because in times like these, our own mortality blazes in our minds.

Cheers to a man who brought smiles to so many.

And apologies to my children, who now have a mom that can fully devote every ounce of her attention on them … and their schoolwork … and the state of their bedrooms … and their behavior … and their curfews … and …

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as Eyerollingmom/Tina Drakakis on Facebook, Instagram & Threads. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

When it Comes to this Mothering Thing, Who’s Better at it: You or Your Mom?

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I never talked back to my parents. Yet my own kids talk back to me. A lot.

My children also raise their voices to me when they’re angry. Think back: would you ever?

Worse still, I often have to tell my spawn to do something multiple times — multiple times —because my continuous requests are repeatedly ignored. Can you even imagine?

As another Mother’s Day approaches I can’t help but reflect on how remarkably different I parent than my mother did. When I dig deep I have to admit: there are times I feel completely overrun by the people in my home that are less than half my age. I don’t think my own mother ever felt that way one day of her life. In fact, she wouldn’t put up with one minute of what I tolerate from my children.

Does that make me a worse mom than her?

In all fairness I should throw it out there that my kids are not rotten. Not in the least. And never have been. They were never the tantrum-throwing toddlers in the restaurant, or the give-a-pinch-when-a-grown-up’s-not-looking schoolyard brat or the current topic of conversation in the teachers’ lunchroom (didn’t know about that? oops, spillin’ secrets here). They happen to be the epitome of respectful individuals when out in the real world and are quite well liked. Actually, if I’m being completely honest I’d have to say they are, in fact, fairly boast-worthy children.

So why do they shit on me?

Usually after a particularly bad display of disrespect from one (or two, or three, or all four) of our kids, my husband and I will have conversations about this, scratching our heads (okay, maybe while downing beers). We question how in the world we got to be parents of children who easily display behavior that would’ve resulted in a swift backhand from any – and all – of our own parents.

We think back and remember the fear in our homes and the physical repercussions of any type of conduct unbecoming. It certainly wasn’t unusual back then. Actually, it was very, very typical. We all did what we were told – the first time – because it far surpassed the alternative of NOT doing so.

But there is no fear in my own home today. There is no apprehension for questioning or stating opinion or disagreeing. It gets loud, sure, and at times inappropriate, but no one’s ever hesitant about speaking up.

There are other blatant differences in my home now that speak volumes to how very different my parenting style is from my mom’s.

For instance, my kids talk to me way more than I ever talked to my mother at their ages – about cringe-worthy topics that would zap the frost straight out of my mom’s bouffant. Eighth grade girls doing decidedly un-eighth grade things in the way back of a bus on a school trip? Sixth grade classmates experimenting with drugs? You name it. Details are anted up without pause, over nightly bowls of pasta or during car rides to practice. Like, nothing. No big deal.

Also, my kids tell me they love me – all the time and for no particular reason. My first distinct memory of saying “I love you”— out loud — to my mom was from a payphone in the middle of a dormitory hallway during my freshman year in college. As I am forced to go through my third Mother’s Day (cough, now with this 2024 update, my thirteenth) without her, my heart still gets heavy when I think of this and my regret pains me. It was way, way too late in life to have started that.

No doubt about it, my kids are being raised in a different world entirely. My mother didn’t socialize with my friends’ parents. I would venture she didn’t know most of their names at all. She didn’t come to many school events and never checked to see if I was doing homework.

If I had to make a list, I’m pretty sure I’m involved in a gazillion more things with my four than my mom ever was for me.

Yet the loves of my loins – all of them – have moments of intolerable selfishness, insufferable self-absorption, whininess, rudeness and petulance. And – why hold back now — they occasionally swear.

So I do wonder: Who’s done a better job at this mothering thing, me or mine?

What do you think?

With all her failings, my mother’s love for me was ferocious and I knew that every day of my life. She raised kind, smart and capable children.

With my own failings, my love for my children is ferocious and they, too, know it every day of their lives.. I am raising kind, smart and capable children.

I’d say we both win this one.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us – the successful ones, the failing ones and the holding-on-for-dear-life ones. We got this.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Boston Globe & Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as Eyerollingmom/Tina Drakakis on Facebook, Instagram & Threads. Her fave collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

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Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

10) Every child – not just yours – picks his nose and smears the contents on the wall near their bed. A brilliant Mom will allow them to harden, then hand over a scraper, then say, “Get to work.”

9) No matter how stinking cute your toddler looks in his feetie pajamas … you will want to be rid of him approximately twelve years later. Keep photos of this stage handy. You will need reminders when he travels to the un-cute side of adolescence.

8) The first few times you sit in the passenger seat of a newly-permitted teen driver, the roadside mailboxes will cause instantaneous sweat and indescribable anxiety.

7) When a child wets the bed … flipping him over to the opposite side of the mattress is intelligence, not laziness.

6) Adolescent girls like no one. Not their mothers. Not their friends. Not themselves. Zip yourself snug into that thick skin and hold on tight. For this tsunami of time I remember my mantra, “Got girls? Get wine.”

5) No one – at any time – ever – cares to hear your labor and delivery stories. Why? Because everyone else’s are far more dramatic, shocking, gory and interesting. Really. Just ask them.

4) If your child ever has the utter misfortune of eating poop … and his siblings have the serendipitous good fortune of witnessing it … there will never again be a more riot-inducing laugh fest at your dinner table. Forever.

3) Don’t act all smart and self-righteous for limiting a ‘tween son’s TikTok … or computer time … or Xbox … when you’ve already provided him with a smartphone. For middle schoolers, these are merely handheld portals to porn. Trust me, I’m like Oprah here: it’s what I know for sure.

2) If you’ve skipped pages of bedtime stories … or driven past the library only to hear a small voice in the backseat say in wonder, “Hey, I think I remember that place …” … or signed homework pages you’ve not actually looked at … then rest assured, you are in excellent company.

1) Every once in a while your kid is going to do something incredibly stupid. Or sorrowfully bad. Or dishearteningly immoral. Or fretfully embarrassing. Or uncharacteristically out of character. Without question, it will be the darkest days you’ve ever encountered as a Mom. You will be overcome with sadness and will wistfully recall the good times, the fun moments, and the sweetness of happier days. Keep the faith. Sometimes kids are just dumb for a little while. One day when you least expect it, when you stop paying attention, and stop longing and praying, the clouds will suddenly lift. And your awesome and funny and beautiful and charming and loving child will be back.

And you will feel the Mom joy once again.

Happens every time.

Happy Mother’s Day to All of us!

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in Boston Globe & Huff Post. She appeared in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone” presenting her popular essay The Thinking Girl’s Thong and her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series. That said, she still places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements (next would be as the $100,000 winner on that home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as Eyerollingmom/Tina Drakakis on Facebook, Instagram & Threads. Her fave collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

All Hail the King

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My local friends witness my frenetic lifestyle firsthand, specifically, that my husband’s consulting job takes him out of state for three weeks each month. With the exception of weekends when he’s home, I have become adept at managing our homestead — and the people in it — in his absence.

Given the fact my youngest is eleven and can (kinda sorta) wipe his own behind, this is not an absurdly impossible feat. At least most of the time.

Nine parent teacher conferences in one night? No sweat.

Sports practices every evening? Got it.

Haircuts, homework, doctors, dentists and an occasional nightly meal? Supermom, present.

I’ll even see you volunteering as a CCD teacher and raise you lunch money to boot. No problem.

So it was with mild amusement (and perhaps teeny hidden contempt) that I would listen to my darling spouse talk over the phone lines about all his free time. With nobody to worry about but himself for 4-5 days, he was eating healthier, running more, keeping his recent weight-loss off. All good. Excellent, actually.

That’s great sweetie, I’d coo, before washing down the last of my Pop tart (dinner) with some Pinot (dessert).

Grrrrrrr……

Now, let’s be real here. I have rolled my eyes at this unbalanced lifestyle before — even (shockingly) written about it -– but I really do keep the matter light. As difficult as my days and night seem at times, I know his life out of a suitcase isn’t always fine wines and turn down service. (Rather, it better not be. Enter psycho wife if that ever surfaced…)

He works extremely hard and spends countless hours waiting in airports, missing important family occasions and playing catch-up on the days he’s finally home. It’s not easy, I will admit.

So imagine my surprise when my Traveling Wilbury arrived home one weekend and declared that our queen-size mattress was unacceptable and most intolerable and immediately had to be replaced with a king. Apparently after months of sleeping in hotels, he had stumbled onto the Holy Grail of wellness: in addition to healing his aching back, ailing knee and other middle-aged irritations, a bigger mattress would surely help him sleep better because well, he sleeps just great while away.

Diva Dad had spoken. I believe my Facebook status for that day read, “Sorry about Christmas, kids. Take all complaints to the big guy…”

Despite the fact we are not fancy people (point made by the bulky 19-inch television relic that’s still kicking in our bedroom), I shrugged and said sure. The practical side of me could list a slew of reasons why it made sense and the frugal side of me had a slew of coupons to rely on when it came time to pick out bedding.

So after nearly a quarter of a century inhaling each other’s less-than amorous sleep aromas … we have upgraded to an additional sixteen inches of slumbered bliss.

My husband & I will celebrate our 22^ndwedding anniversary in a few months. Sometimes we do things really, really badly.

Like the happy-hour-induced-hole in the sheetrock in my college apartment? Probably not our finest moment.

Or the humiliating $500 pyramid scheme bandwagon we jumped into in 1992? Seriously….. what dummies.

Even the two interstate moves in ten months (four kids in tow) for an oops career move? (Hindsight, that actually turned out pretty damn good in the long run but truth: who does that???)

But every once in a while we get something right.

The king-sized mattress is one of these times. Raising children in an environment where the Family Bed has been frowned upon? Definitely another one.

The best part: I’m only sharing it a portion of the time.

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The Good, The Bad & the “Girls”

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In my perpetual quest to remain hip I try to keep my eyes and ears open. I sniff out emerging trends (Red jeans? Of course! Tucked into black boots? Hell no – Santa Alert) and admittedly, jump on a lot of late bandwagons (thank you, HBO OnDemand, for the perfection that is True Detective).

That said, after hearing my 17-year-old daughter gush over the HBO series “Girls,” a show about modern-day 20-something female friends trying to make their way in the world after college, I decided to give it a whirl.

I really didn’t care for it but she nudged me on.

I tried a few more episodes yet still got a weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach. I told her I just wasn’t that into it.

“Maybe you’re just too old” she shrugged.

What? Pffffft. I think not.

Bolstered by a slew of Golden Globe nominations, I gave it yet another shot. Still nothing. Nary a chuckle.

I got through all 10 episodes of the entire first season and numbly thought of all the miles I could’ve clocked on my treadmill had I just gotten off the couch once in those five hours…

But I believe I’ve figured out why an undeniably hip show is eluding my undeniably hip sense of humor.

The female characters are crude. Not in the Sex-and-the-City-Samantha-Jones cheeky kind of way but in a crass, Good-God-I-hope-my-daughter-doesn’t-do-that kind of way.

I get it. It’s a comedy. And I love comedy. But the whole desensitization of really (really) private things seriously gives me the heebie jeebies.

Also, I’m not entirely convinced college educated young women are so … I don’t know … self-loathing. Their flippant banter about oral sex and office harassment left me wondering if young women really do talk like this. (I’m kinda hoping to hear from a few after this … and I’m really hoping to be told I’m out to lunch. If you’re young and hip and reading this – please check in!)

I remember feeling the exact same way when my oldest son (now a semi-grown man at 19) used to watch those man-cave scratching movies like “Knocked Up” and “Pineapple Express.” Those movies made masturbation and getting stoned look like the epitome of hilarity. And (worse) normalcy. Poor, poor Seth Rogen’s mother …..

It finally dawned on me why these types of movies grate on my nerves and polarize me: seeing these “characters” puts a face on my very vision of parental failing. These larger than life portrayals of such flawed and unfazed youth are the stuff of my nightmares: kids with no direction, no money, no motivation, and the worst: no apartment of their own – Jesus Christ, they’re the scarlet letter symbolizing my utter failure as a mom.

No, no, NO!

I don’t want my kid spending his meager paycheck on weed.

And I’d rather die a thousand deaths than know my daughter was tolerating her boss’ hand on her skirt.

I honestly don’t know what I’d do – in real life – if these situations in these comedies were playing out in real time in my kids’ lives. What I do know is that I would find it decidedly Unfunny. (Quick aside: for an EXTREMELY funny look at flawed — yet SUCCESSFUL — Generation X, Y, whatevers …. check out “The Mindy Project” on FOX. She just rocks, is all.)

So yeah, maybe I’m not as hip as I used to be.

Maybe I’m simply more scared.

Damn this parenting thing.

Signed,

Stifler’s Mother

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