When I was in college, you knew it was time to start getting ready to go out on Saturday night when my roommate, Theresa, exited the shower, walked across the apartment in her towel, and cranked up “Caribbean Queen.”
It was like a dog whistle.
Within minutes, bathrooms were bustling, Stiff Stuff was spraying and lips were lining (with precision).
And it was 10pm.
Nowadays, if 10pm rolls around you can be damn sure I am hoping my night is almost over. Why? Because I am freaking tired, that’s why.
I’m not exactly proud of it but I’m certainly not ashamed by it either because I know I am faaaaaar from alone. I want to sleep so badly but all my kids are at their rite-of-passage vampire stage so I’m outta luck. I have teens coming in later on weekends and that stinks. I have ‘tweens staying up later on weeknights and that stinks worse.
I know we all signed the (We’ll) Sleep (When We’re Dead) Contract when we became pregnant and that was all fine – back then. But for the love of God, was it signed in placenta fluid? Is there an expiration date?
Listen, I’m entitled to be a little cranky. I happen to be running this show alone now. My husband’s job keeps him out of town a lot and I must admit brag that I’ve gotten awfully good at keeping things afloat as a single parent. So long as everyone’s alright with egg sandwiches for dinner and a minimum of clean socks, I’d say this machine is running incredibly smoothly, thankyouverymuch.
But I have to be honest. I am beat, man. Throw in the Middle Age First Amendment (Thou Shalt Not Sleep Three Consecutive Hours Once One Hits 40 Years Old) and you are looking at an explosive yet very potential mixture of sleep deprivation and homicide.
I can’t be like my kids and catch up with sleep on Saturdays because come on, there are dogs to be walked and husbands to reconnect with over coffee and — you know – that litany of things on a never ending Weekend To Do List to tackle.
And forget lazy Sunday sleep-ins because let’s be real, we all know how those go: if you’re not where you’re supposed to be on Sunday mornings (cough, church) you’re definitely where you want to be (baseball/soccer/football field or well, a diner….) so THAT never works out either.
I suppose I could try sleeping a few hours as soon as I got home from work, waking up in time for dinner but — seriously, who can do that? Oh wait….that would be a high school senior, who naps, then effortlessly drinks coffee at nine to stay up for three more hours of homework. Screwy, right?
I think the greatest irony to this whole dilemma is that …
by the time all the chaos of kids and chores and commitments winds down …
… the Middle Age Second Amendment is suddenly upon on: Thou Shalt Not Sleep Past 5am. Ever.
Can I get a collective “Craaaaaaaaap…..” from all my tired sistas out there?
My friends already know I gave up skiing a few years ago. It really wasn’t a stretch. I honestly never loved it and once my youngest began to fly past my embarrassing attempt at it, I was done. I immediately acknowledged that the role reversal of children now looking after mom on the slopes was an unnecessary irony. (Hey now. This admission isn’t indicative of my athleticism. I’m fairly certain I can still execute a near-perfect cartwheel – in heels if I haven’t been drinking – so there’s no shame here.)
Still, owning a ski timeshare week in Vermont tends to keep the sport alive and well in our family whether I like it or not.
Whereas I used to take one for the team, I now take one for myself. Actually I take more than one. I take a few.
Minutes, of course. Minutes of precious, evasive time.
I take some time off of work to join them. I take some time to catch up on reading, and writing, and relaxing in a quiet condo or lodge (or, who are we kidding, Black Bear Tavern) while my family tears up the slopes and it is amazing.
Totally and unabashedly a-m-a-z-i-n-g.
Even better, I’m at the point where I have completely removed myself from the skiing process entirely: the planning, the packing and all the procedures that go with it. I throw some stuff in a duffle bag, shop for some snacks and basically well, show up. Because of this, I do realize my right to eyeroll is diminished significantly for a few days.
During the ride up, when my minivan of testosterone unanimously voted on a dinner of Taco Bell with a side of KFC – even though I have been trying really, REALLY hard to cut calories — I didn’t complain.
When the remainder of the car ride subsequently became a gaseous, toxic tsunami of unbearable proportion, I didn’t flinch. Even when a voice from the back cried out through the hysterical laughter, “Ewww, I think I just felt blood…” Nope. No Mom-reaction at all.
When, upon arrival, the entire contents of the van came spilling out onto the snowy ground the moment a kid opened the back hatch, not a snicker left my lips. Shrug. Wasn’t me who packed loose underwear in a laundry basket. Wasn’t my shampoo and deodorant (and said underwear) that went rolling under cars. Fun fact: we unreasonable nagging moms tend to remember to zip OUR duffle bags. Just sayin.
When I saw a toothbrush sitting untouched and dry on the kitchen table all weekend, I truly didn’t care. I was on vacation.
When I realized that 50% of the four teenage boys in tow never saw the inside of a shower stall the whole time, I didn’t even care about that either.
When, at day’s end, the outnumbering gender took over the main living area and zoned out in front of ESPN for (what seemed like) hours, I sat among them, indifferent and accommodating.
I didn’t ignore my happy little ski crew — I met them all for lunch and dinner in between their runs and ran around taking pictures like I’m supposed to – but I just sorta did my own thing.
Blissfully.
I relished a quiet condo and did things I never, ever do. I perused Facebook aimlessly – only this time without a judging, clucking spouse glaring at me from across the room.
I watched supremely bad television. Remember Jaws 2? I had it on every television in the unit so that while I went tidying and picking up throughout the various rooms I wouldn’t miss a minute. That. Was. Awesome.
In my time alone I even left on CMT (cough, that’s Country Music Television for those in the dark) all day long and, with no minions around to mock me, felt no indignity whatsoever. Again: awesome.
Even on the car ride home I refused to let their mayhem and (awful) music permeate my happy space. Hearing them all shamelessly sing (shout?) the lyrics to “I’m a Stoner,” “Talk Dirty to Me,” and “Drunk in Love” actually made me chuckle instead of wince. Hearing their man-child falsettos nail a four-part harmony to Katy Perry’s new song made me laugh out loud. Boys are funny aren’t they?
So it was a great time.
Unlike in years past, when I was a bumbling, scowling, cursing and freezing family naysayer, our winter bonding is now a win-win for all involved.
In fact, I may even bring up a non-skiing girlfriend next year to make it the ultimate in family vacations.
Fair warning: It’s the kind of news that I will likely sneak into countless conversations for the next twenty years or so (because, well, the statute of limitations has run out on my Reality TV fame and my kids and spouse and friends and family and strangers say I’m not allowed to talk about that anymore).
Lucky for me I get another chance to become the Norma Desmond of the Suburban Sunset Boulevard.
You say insufferable …
I say …
(cue in visual of a victorious Mary Katherine Gallagher)
SUPERSTAAAAAAAAAAR!
(hey now, if one is repeatedly called lame by their children on a daily basis, this is not bragging. Just wishful thinking.)
Honestly, we all know I have been (pitifully) regaling in my fifteen minutes of television notoriety for more than a (gulp) decade. It turns out I now have something different to go on and on (and on and on) about for the next ten years.
While not exactly Eyerollingmom: The Musical, a most humbling of honors has come my way.
One of the obvious pitfalls of being a writer/blogger is the unavoidable consequence of personal exposure. You put yourself out there with every written word and – if successful – you can incite genuine feelings in your readers.
If you’re me – and have made the conscious decision to divulge personal parenting truths AND at the same time raise literate children – you know at some point these kids might actually read some of your stuff one day.
And likely … they’ll be pissed.
Eventually, though, your kids might mature (might) and perhaps if you’re lucky, one day think you’re kinda sorta (a lil bit) cool. Fingers crossed, this will become one of those times.
A while back I wrote about my daughter, who was thirteen at the time. When the piece, “The Thinking Girl’s Thong,” was published, it duly enraged her once she caught wind of it. Naturally since that time I’ve found countless and creative other ways of ruining her life so really, we’re good now.
Still, it was – and is – one of my favorite pieces of writing I’ve ever produced.
Here’s why she can’t be mad about it ever again: The essay has been selected to be a part of the “Listen to Your Mother” series of shows that have been staged throughout the country for the past few years. “LTYM” is coming to Boston for the first time later this spring and I have been invited to be one of the inaugural “performers” and read my adored ode to my favorite teen queen.
I will be joined by fourteen other inspirational writers shining a deserved spotlight on all that is good and real and true about the phenomenon of being moms. The good, the bad (the wine?) and the lessons needed to be shared.
So … if you are a friend …
Or a (blog) follower …
Or a (Reality TV) fan … (I kid, I kid)
I cordially invite you to “Listen to Your Mother, Boston,” a show devoted to “Giving Motherhood a Microphone,” on Saturday, April 26.
Get gussied up …
and grab your guy …
or grab a girlfriend (or seven) …
or better still (if you are so, so damn lucky) grab your mom …
And come commemorate Mother’s Day the way it should be: with moms, praising moms, celebrating moms. Truth: Nobody rocks the way we do.
At the very least, check out the event (in 32 cities!) and raise a glass to tales of motherhood, warts and all:
(…and, a promise: if I do not faint on stage, I will be graciously accepting celebratory beverages after the show — at which time you may absolutely hand down a cease and desist order of when I must stop talking about this)
Spread this awesome news, share my Facebook page and treat yourself to a mighty mom time!
All I remember is that it started with sperm. There I was, frying up some egg sandwiches and before I knew what was happening, there were giggles and roars and it dawned on me that the boys were using the word sperm in their banter. Third and fifth grade. Terrific. The thing is, I probably should’ve seen it coming – just last week one came in to rat on the other that he’d just been accused of having a mangina (you know, instead of a manhood).
Joyous.
I took a breath. I can do this, I thought. I’ve done it before. A couple of years ago while driving around with my then-fifteen-year-old he referred to someone as a douche bag. (Flash-forward to today and this word has appallingly become part of the teenage vernacular, used in movies and television and sooooo not a big deal. But back then it was merely on the horizon and I was aiming to halt it.) In the best smart-ass-y voice I could muster, I asked,
“Hey, do you even know what a douche bag is?”
“No.” was his shrugged response.
“Well,” I started cheerfully, “it’s actually a bag of cleaning fluid a woman squishes up into her vagina to clean it out.” Cue in wide grin. “Cool, huh?”
He would’ve jumped out the car window had he not been temporarily struck by mortification paralysis. But I think it went well: I never heard the word come out of his mouth again.
So apparently here was my déjà vu. I had to dish out some more blunt, in-your-face reality but I was ready. I was the master. This was going to be cake. Plus, as an added bonus, I had BOTH of them right there – I wasn’t going to have to go through this twice. I looked at the two of them and began.
What I said was, “Do you even know what sperm is?”
What they heard was, “Release the Kraken!”
I spent the next twenty minutes fielding their questions…. and then extinguishing their subsequent fits of laughter at my responses. When they weren’t falling off the counter stools in hysterics they were squealing at situations and scenarios only little boy brains conjure up – mostly imagery involving hot dogs.
Good God. All this and an explanation of porn before ten in the morning.
I did my best, answered truthfully and stressed the seriousness of taking all private matters well, seriously. It’s a tough paradigm shift: Kids are exposed to so much junk in such comedic ways it’s no wonder they think every sexual scenario is out of a “Superbad” movie.
Chivalry may be dead but now modesty is on a respirator. Good times for kids.
So it was a morning for the books. And — reward for Mom getting through it — an evening for Bud Light.
For the record, the discussion didn’t end at the kitchen counter. My husband found a reason to grab my 10-year-old for a Sunday car ride and got through a much needed follow-up-father-son discussion without the added distraction of a younger brother (or – cringe — food references).
And alas, before the weekend came to a close, that crazy karma came sniffing around again.
“Mom, I have a question…..” My son’s voice trailed off when he noticed his brother within hearing distance. I gently inquired if it was a question which might be best asked in private. “I don’t know… I just don’t understand a word.”
“It’s okay, just ask.”
“What does douche mean?”
Baaaaahhhhhh!
I straightened my shoulders and flipped my hair.
I got this.
Tina Drakakis blogs atEyerollingmomand 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!)
I’ve been paying close attention to the ubiquitous catchphrase “Millennials,” which refers to the new crop of young adults who will be entering the workforce and taking over for the tens of thousands of retiring baby boomers. Born between 1980 and 1995, it seems this group has had the dubious distinction of being coddled their entire life and has subsequently spent the last two decades hearing doting parents and teachers alike insist “You’re special!” and “You’re number one!”
Funny. It turns out if kids hear something like this long enoug,h kids tends to believe it: according to the grumblings this future working class apparently has little regard for authority and worse, a less than reverent approach to protocol and procedure. Look out people: when the Millennials take over, flip flops on Fridays will be the least of their demands.
I’m becoming increasingly interested in this subject for a couple of reasons. First off, my husband’s profession is smack-dab within employee recognition and – specifically – employee retention. This oncoming cattle rush of E-Bay employees willing to take their services to the highest bidder whenever something doesn’t go their way concerns a corporate America that relies heavily on longevity and loyalty. But that’s just him and his white collar world. My main motivation for concern lies in the significant fact that I am presently nurturing two creatures that fall into this well, coddled category: yep; teenagers.
For the record, I believe my kids are far from coddled. I’d like to think I’m doing my part to keep society sane because – get a load of this: I don’t give my kids whatever they ask for — but it turns out I’m not exactly the majority. Some days I feel as if I’m swimming against a tide of teenage entitlement because absurd entitlement abounds elsewhere in their lives.
On town ball fields my kids learned to play scoreless soccer. Seriously. Did it ever occur to anyone that if kids are old enough to understand the rules of a team sport… they might also be able to count the number of times a ball gets kicked into a net? And while official play books are manned and statistics are recorded during their little league games, nope, there’s no score kept there either. Everybody plays. Everybody runs around the bases. Everybody gets a big shiny trophy at the end of the season – just for participating. For real.
I recently attended a school concert which began with not one but four vocal solos in a row. None were outstanding. At first I thought it was me; perhaps my benchmarks for preteen warbling were unrealistic (damn that dreaded “American Idol”) or worse, perhaps I’m completely tone deaf from all my screaming about chores. When I casually looked around and saw other parents with pained, confused expressions, I knew it wasn’t just me. While it was uncomfortable enough to sit through, it was more mind-boggling when the reason became clear: those teenage girls were shamelessly standing alone at a microphone simply because they had asked to. No exceptional talent was required because really, everyoneone is talented, right?
My kids have stayed after school to “finish” taking tests. They’ve also taken a test and then have re-taken it again and again until the grade is acceptable to them. Whatever happened to “time’s up/pencils down”? And where were these teachers twenty-five years ago when I was taking my Calculus final?
It may not take a village but it’s certainly going to take more than just me to get things turned around here. If I’m willing to endure round-the-clock declarations of unfairness or continuous accusations of “worst mom ever” I’d like a little support from the trenches.
I don’t need Dr. Phil; I just need other parents (and maybe the occasional coach or music teacher) to band with me and tell these kids that real life provides rewards for hard work.
And it is NOT okay to return to our homes indefinitely once college is over (God help me).
And there IS something wrong with showing up late to work.
And by the power of Thor, flip flops are always going to be wrong, wrong, wrong in a cubicle.
For daily snark and snippets, follow Eyerollingmom on Facebook & Twitter!
Last night I shared a glass of wine with the other woman. We sat across from each other, not quite knowing how to proceed, not quite certain who should go first, not quite adept at morphing a previously computer-screen-correspondence into a face-to-face conversation.
I could see why the love of my life was drawn to her. We were eerily similar. I’d gathered that from our emails. We sounded alike…on cyber chat . We reasoned alike. We held the same values and morals. Yes, morals.
This was no adulteress. Oh no, not at all. This was the woman – the mother – whose home my teenaged son had run away to.
He called it moving out. But conventional wisdom would argue that throwing some clothes in a duffel bag and heading out the door without an inkling of what’s happening the next day is no such thing. He had run away.
He had had it with our outrageous rules, our absurd expectations and our irrational belief that teens should be responsible and respectful on their journey to adulthood. So — without angry fanfare or slamming doors — my oldest child left our home six days before his high school graduation.
And now, on the eve of his one-month anniversary date (breathe) of life on an air mattress, his preferred mother and I sat in my home and shared some shrugs. And Pinot.
The situation, as an understatement, was hard. Devastating, in fact. It was the ultimate in rejection for a mother: a child that doesn’t want her.
And I didn’t pretend to understand it.
I didn’t understand it because it didn’t follow the script of a Lifetime original movie. There weren’t any “I hate you”s or abuse or betrayal or Meredith Baxter Birneys. We’d been navigating the typical insanity that comes with adolescence and (insert back pat here), actually thought we were doing damn good so far. There were boundaries and consequences and forgiveness and laughter and acne. Nothing too strict, nothing too lenient. Having survived our own teenage years in the ‘80s of New York, gawd, if anyone knew about pushing the limits of youth, it was us. Fully aware of setting standards and precedents for the three kids that followed behind, my husband and I rolled with the teen madness.
Never had we imagined our rolling would come to a screeching halt.
At first we waited. He’ll be back, we reasoned. We hadn’t allowed him to take his car – surely he’d have to get back and forth to work. But no. He relied on his friends and – we’ll be dammned – they came through. So far, for an entire month. Well alrighty then. Interesting bunch, those teenagers.
The other mother contacted me immediately.
She lived a few blocks away. I explained to her my son did not get kicked out of our home, that this was all his own doing. She has two teenaged sons herself. She understood. She said she’d keep me posted on events as they occurred and thus our cordial relationship began, allowing me to become privy to more details of my son’s life than I’d even known when he was in my own home.
As far as shiteous situations go, I had stumbled into a remarkably awesome one. This other mother was sharp. Gave him an early curfew and chores and expectations. Boundaries. Consequences. Hmmm. Weirdly familiar, right?
She admitted she couldn’t come up with a logical excuse for – after four weeks – throwing him out. He was the consummate house guest: polite, obedient and respectful. In truth, she really, really liked him.
Yeah. We get that. We do, too.
She talked to him daily about the value of reconnecting with his family and told him she just couldn’t understand why he wanted to go through this without them.
Yeah. Same here.
Still, we put a positive spin on things for the sake of the kids and silently pray that he comes to his senses and (cue in cheek-slap from Cher), snaps out of it.
I haven’t sat idly by, though, hand-wringing and despondent. With the situation seemingly out of control I did what any other mother in my position would do: hauled my ass into therapy.
After a full debriefing her assessment was unsurprising: I was a reasonable person trying to reason with an unreasonable adolescent. She said that since my son was not relying on me for anything the situation was most definitely out of my control and I should let it go.
Let it go.
Let it go?
Let go of a child? (He is a high school graduate, she reminded. On paper, an adult.)
But…..but….but…..
But nothing.
I plunked down a few co-payments for a few weeks but eventually started to space out my visits. She was wonderful but hearing a therapist tell you something you already know is not exactly cost effective. My girlfriends do it for free.
So there is no happy ending to this cautionary tale, unless one looks at the (okay, almost amazing) relationship I’ve made with the other mother. We talked for hours – and not just about my son. It was obvious: having met under different circumstances, we’d likely be good friends.
She is giving him a safe environment to straighten out his head and I am giving him the freedom to figure it out.
I am without explanation as to why my son is attempting to assert his maturity in the most immature way imaginable. And it is unfathomable to me why he needs to go through this – or anything for that matter – without his family around him. And it is crushing. I won’t lie: it is the most crushing and hurtful and indescribable pain I have ever felt as a mother.
But he is a good kid and we are good parents.
I guess I know deep down he’ll be back one day.
I just wish it had been yesterday.
* * * *
Update: Somewhere in between the time this author had the courage to write this….
…and print this…..
…her seventeen-year-old returned home.
It was a long 47 days.
Ironically – it was also just as long (if not shorter) as this author’s own silent treatment to her own mother…
… when SHE was seventeen years old.
Exhale.
Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in HuffPost. 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
Disclaimer: My experience on a reality television show, while seemingly a lifetime ago, still makes for a good story. Since there are no surly teenagers nearby me to screech, “Nooooooo….not again, Mom!” I’m going to share it Yes, it was a loooong time ago, and yes, I believe Paige Davis may have fallen into a black hole since then, but it was at the height of popularity when our “Trading Spaces: $100 Grand!” two-hour special aired. And yes, it was (high-pitched-soprano-voice) AWESOME.
A long time ago in a career far, far away I got into a little skirmish with Geraldo. I was a publicist, he was, well, Geraldo, and the whole he-said/she-said thing landed on the front page of Daily Variety. There it was, in black and white: my name, my title and my quote. My quote! Hence, my very first brush with fame. While it was relatively small-scale (I mean seriously, how many people – especially those of us on the East coast – actually read Variety?), it was a professional feather in my cap that tickled me ridiculously and caused my boss to seethe. Naturally, I faxed the story to everyone I knew (this being the time when Geraldo was a media presence, of course there was no e-mail), and held onto it for years.
Fast-forward a dozen years, and with the help of a little reality-television show, I found myself in the throes of celebrity again, only this time in a brave new world. Plucked from obscurity, I was given a spotlight of national attention and enough local publicity to humble a politician. Still, it had never occurred to me that along with my fifteen minutes of fame came a little thing called, ummm, opinion. Have I mentioned that everybody’s got one – along with a computer? Had I known that I could evoke such passionate opinions from people I most certainly would have spent a lot less time worrying about the dungaree shorts I chose to wear for the filming of my television stint.
On the show’s website, throughout its wildly popular message boards were beautiful sentiments from virtual strangers: Raves (loved the show!). Cheers (loved you!). Kudos (congratulations!). But alas, like the envious boss who didn’t get acknowledgment, sprinkled throughout these well-wishes was an eye-opening array of not-so-happy campers. At first it was funny. (Okay, at first I didn’t spot my name). But after continued reading (equate it to picking at dried glue on your fingers – when does one actually stop?) it became mildly horrifying.
“Get off the computer,” my husband pleaded. I was addicted.
“Did you read what this guy wrote? That is so WRONG!” He’d simply shake his head. He knew I had crossed over.
According to one eagle-eyed viewer, I was apparently wealthy, therefore rendering me unworthy of the good fortune bestowed on my family. (This perception usually draws great fits of laughter from my family, close friends and the checkout clerk at the receiving end of my mountain of coupons each week.) One anonymous viewer called me arrogant. Arrogant? I won a big prize, had the ever-present camera catch my gratuitous tears, and nearly died from the excitement of the whole experience. Good God. Then there was a woman who ranted to all the other message-board posters that I made her want to barf. Barf? In fairness, I was completely aware that the humidity that plagued filming had turned my hair into a Farrah-esque flashback for most my age, but barf? That was uncalled for.
One of the show’s producers warned, “Oh, by the way, don’t go onto the message boards. Those people are crazy.” Yeah, we got that. Too late.
My love/hate relationship with fame has left me far more understanding of the price that is paid by bona-fide celebs, and not just the flash-in-the-pan variety like myself. It makes me realize how often I’ve become part of a heated discussion about one of the delightfully colorful cast of characters on the “Who Wants to Survive the Average Joe Millionaire” shows I tend to gravitate to on any given night. It is with heavy heart that I think of all the times I purchased a steamy tabloid solely to gobble up the dirt that poor Britney had to endure this past week. Now that I know how it feels to be utterly slammed, I am, of course, repentant.
“Were you on that show?” The hairstylist’s grin has me marked as she escorts my daughter to a chair. My nod is sheepish, but my alert mind is racing: Oh, the bad press that could come out of this! Is my hair combed? Is my holiday-induced weight gain obvious? How quickly can she call the newspaper to report a bad tip?
In the end, the five-dollar tip (for a ten dollar child’s haircut) is hidden in my fist as I go to thank her and depart.
“I loved it,” she giggles, and turns away.
For what it’s worth, I was a pretty good tipper before all this.
My “New Year’s” card from a few years ago. Too crazed to pull off a Xmas shoot, I bribed & threatened to get this shot. My crew STILL holds a grudge … can’t imagine why .
I have chosen to NOT send out Christmas cards this year. Again. Last year I just couldn’t muster up the desire and the year before I thought it would simply be a nice respite.
Whaddaya know. I think I may have stumbled onto a new favorite tradition.
I’ve spent many a snarky blog mocking Christmas letters (and – why don’t we simply put me on the express track to Hell – Christmas photos as well. Come on, you know you do, too. I just say it out loud. Shrug.)
But I really do love my idea of the Why-Can’t-We-All-Just-Be-A-Wee-Bit-Honest? anti-Christmas letter. I wish they all sounded like mine:
I’d say with blatant bragging that my kids didn’t turn into trolls throughout the year and were still, in fact, good looking. (Naturally if No-Shave November didn’t find my son looking like Wolverine I could’ve secured proof of this over Thanksgiving weekend when we were all together but no such luck.)
I’d reveal that I am secretly thrilled when my oldest son is at college … because his proclivity to starting his day at 3:30 to do errands when he’s home makes my hair fall out.
I’d express delight that my college-bound, environmentally impassioned daughter is poised to save the world one dolphin or blade of grass at a time … yet would rather hug a tree than any of her brothers … and that kinda sorta makes me mental.
I’d report that my middle-school sons are doing well in their school and sporting endeavors … but that their inability to decode and decipher common phrases like “Take you shoes off before coming in” and “Hang up that towel” worries me immeasurably.
I’d boast about my husband’s year of health and weight loss (again, not really a loss when it’s found by someone else, eh?) but to even the score I would definitely get in a few digs about my perpetually broken kitchen pendant light. I’d then probably put it in print that I am holding firm on getting my downstairs painted this spring (and that this task will far take precedence over – pick one – a new snow blower, lawnmower and/or Patriots season tickets. So there.)
I’d ramble on about our family vacation to Disney with a great group of friends and then embarrassingly admit I lost my youngest son within 5 minutes of entering the happiest place on Earth. Yes. Party of 14 people. Lost child. 5 flippin minutes.
I’d divulge funny details about my job (that I love) in an alternative middle/high school (Really? I’m complaining about wet towels at home? Really???) but then I’d share the far from humorous reality of having to keep the doors locked there now.
Scary times.
It’s best to just remember that our lives – and our livelihoods — are merely temporary.
Why not laugh a little and focus on the daily, smaller smiles because really — one day real soon I may be missing those wet towels on the floor, right?
My family is healthy and my life is full of love and friends and laughter. (And recycling. Lots and lots of recycling because – haven’t you heard — my daughter has turned into the Conservation Nazi.)
So, as I sit here watching “The Sound of Music” (singing every word to “Climb Every Mountain” because, my gaaaaawd, Mrs. Cazzaza made us sing it in elementary school, I wish everyone the same:
Health, love, and (of course) recycling.
And laughter.
Lots and lots of laughter.
Merry Christmas everyone!
Follow & LIKE Eyerollingmom on Facebook: www.facebook.com/eyerollingmom
My yearly disclaimer: because of the universal chord it strikes, I have declared this my very own “Yes, Virginia” tradition and continue to publish it each year, complete with updates. Ho, ho, ho, my friends!
Show me a parent who’s a little wigged out by the inevitable birds-and-bees talk with their child and I’ll show you a parent who hasn’t even thought about – let alone attempted – the Santa Claus talk. Heads up: nothing – nothing – prepares you for that ambush while innocently watching a sitcom. Give me reproduction or Heather Has Two Daddies any day of the week, thank you very much.
“You guys buy the stuff, right?” It came from my oldest, an 11-year-old who is blissfully naïve, heartwarmingly immature, and constantly questioning why he can’t use words like crap. He IS in sixth grade, you know. He held his newly formed Christmas list.
“Why do you ask?” my husband’s panicked eyes pleaded for me to jump right in at any time. I was too busy weighing the odds. I was sensing that the question held an honest desire for truth, yet I couldn’t be certain a bluff wasn’t involved.
Last year I was confident the belief was still there. My friends and family couldn’t accept that my wide eyed middle schooler dutifully wrote his letter to Santa without question. Sure, there was talk on the school bus and there were kids with older siblings and yes, there was a slight wane in his interest in gathering around to watch those goofy Christmas shows from the 70s (Burger Meister Meister Burger, anyone?). Still, I knew the dreamlike image of a man in a red suit rousing him from sleep (at what – five years old?) was embedded in his memory. I could tell there was something in his eyes that wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know.
My husband’s cough seemed forced. “Well what have you heard?” (Wasn’t that always a good parental deflect?)
It was as we’d expected. Damn those kids on the bus with older brothers. Ugh, what to do next? First, we had to consider the sibling factor. We’ve got three more coming down the pike and quite frankly, I love a household full of innocence and wonder. It’s magical primarily because it’s, well, fleeting. Could it be over already? Second, I wasn’t entirely sure he could pull off a covert mission of betrayal to the brothers he still chased around with swords and the sister he lived to torment. This couldn’t be a good thing.
Sensing our concern, he pointed out that he stopped believing in the Easter Bunny a long time ago (because come on now, a bunny?) and he still keeps that from the little ones. And that he’d gotten the “other” talk almost two years ago and never spills on that, either. Good point. So why was this so much harder?
It’s simply a door that closes on childhood that just blatantly makes us sad. It’s a milestone that isn’t measured in pencil marks on a doorframe, can’t be captured on film, and doesn’t exactly make our lives easier like some other benchmarks. Honestly, sometimes we can’t wait for them to get just a little bit older. We anxiously await the first hot dog that is eaten with a bun. We secretly rejoice when swing pumping is officially mastered, allowing us a few more luxurious minutes on a playground bench instead of in a sandpit wearing sandals. Some might even want to dance naked when their youngest FINALLY starts to toilet train (okay maybe that’s just me). These are milestones indeed and we look forward to them. But some rites of passage sure do stink.
While we openly dread learner’s permits and after-prom parties, we tend to forget about the smaller life moments that affect our kids – and us — before acne: Their first order off the adult menu that is actually eaten in its entirety; The way their new big teeth completely change the look of their faces, quietly erasing the baby-ness from their features; The first time you notice – really notice – that their legs are so much longer since the last time you seemed to look. It’s these times that grip our hearts and keep us frozen just for a moment. Just slight, inconspicuous reminders that calendar pages keep turning and candles on cakes keep taking up more space on the frosting.
“Yes, it’s us” my husband blurts out. Subtlety obviously isn’t his strong suit. I probably would’ve gone a softer route but I admired his zeal. The last thing you want in life is your kid being made fun of by a bunch of kids on a school bus.
“And it was me in the Santa suit” he spat. (Whoa, easy there, Tonto, give the kid a minute to digest….)
It was a nod and a matter-of-fact shrug that acknowledged the news. He handed me his Christmas list and looked spy-like over both shoulders, “Mom, I really don’t need #8 on my list. You can cross it off.” Another check of the perimeter and then a wink and a whisper, “It’s kind of expensive.”
Well break my heart in half and bring on the acne. I’ll be dammed if that kid doesn’t get #8 this year. Maybe he’ll even get two.
* * * *
2009 Update: that blissfully naive 11-year-old is now an awesomely out-of-touch 16-year-old hoping Santa brings him (pick one) a car, I-Phone or mountain of cash. He’s obviously still blissfully naive but he’s kept our secret like he promised he would.
2010 Update: that blissfully naïve 11-year-old is now filling out college applications (sigh…. we just don’t speak of this topic without also employing the phrase “God willing”). His sharp-as-a-tack 11-year-old brother (irony?) keenly keeps his Christmas desires to a financial possibility. And watching from the wings is an equally suspicious 9-year-old, who really wants to believe…..but……since the Tooth Fairy bailed on three straight nights…..is having some…..doubts……
2011 Update: that blissfully naive 11-year-old is presently enlisted in the United States Air Force Reserves as an Airman. The only thing he’s asking for from Santa this year is his mom’s meatballs (she, in turn, is begging for an endless supply of L’Oreal grey coverage). My teen diva — surprisingly — has nary a thing on her list. She’s got a job, a boyfriend and a 1994 Nissan with roll-up windows so life is pretty close to perfect right now. My sharp ‘lil tween, fresh into his first foray of romance, is desperately seeking some Old Spice Swagger under the tree to keep him smelling gooooood. And my baby…..my ten-year-old baby…… is ready to shout from the highest rooftop that HE, too, knows THE TRUTH about all this nonsense and HAS known for a VERY LONG TIME. And thinks he should get an I-Phone. Because — he insists — 10 is the new 15.
2012 Update: that blissfully naïve 11-year-old is now a college freshman, who really just wants to sleep in his own bed awhile before next semester begins. I know. How and when in the world did that happen? The weird thing: our countdown is finally up. My youngest baby – who was in diapers when this story began – is now a point guard on his basketball team and wears a bigger shoe than his mom. Never again will I have a blissfully naïve — or any other for that matter– 11-year-old in my family. Some days, when I least expect it — I won’t lie — it just makes me really, really sad.
REALLY sad.
2013 Update: Nowadays the “children” in my home consist of 2 young adults and 2 ever-growing, ever-eating teens. When we recently sat down to Thanksgiving dinner — when college classes and freshmen football and work schedules and every other life commitment of six people all miraculously meshed together for one day — I had a moment when I believed Santa came early. A happy and laughter-infused occasion, I wanted to freeze the moment in time. It was a little magical.
Now more than ever before I am acutely aware of time passing quickly. Unbearably and unfairly quickly.
Because of this, I look for a little magic all the time.
Not surprisingly, It’s always there.
2024 Update: Well, well, well, how quickly the game can change! My firstborn little prince, the very subject of this favorite memory of mine, now has a firstborn little prince of his own. My updates will end here, as I turn on the kettle to settle in and watch a new generation of magic transpire right before my eyes.
Happiest of holidays, friends! Enjoy the mini moments that will stay front & center in your heart for always!
Tina Drakakis blogs atEyerollingmomand 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!)
One of my very best friends just received a tremendous promotion, catapulting her into a very high, very-six-figure salary range. I learned of this after she tossed me a perfect size-six pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps that she’d just received as a Christmas present from her boss.
“Here, take these, she bought the wrong size and I’m too embarrassed to tell her.”
While I inwardly chuckled at the thought of vacuuming in them – because really, where was I going in them? – I couldn’t help but notice the card of the Neiman Marcus personal shopper still in the box. Obviously had she returned them her boss would never have known. Hmmm…was I to suspect a little pity-present was happening here?
While I love her and couldn’t be more thrilled for her, it’s no surprise that such great news has caused me to reflect on my own personal state of affairs. Professionally, we worked together for a number of years (okay, truthfully, I hired her). Socially, we did happy hours. A lot. When I left our profession to begin raising a family she was beneath my middle management level, but in the past few years her ascent up the ladder has been both exciting and troublesome for me. My feelings fluctuate between “You go girl!” and “Hey, wait a minute, couldn’t that – shouldn’t that – be me?”
Making the decision to become a stay-at-home mother is one of toughest choices any woman will ever have to make, and granted, it isn’t for everyone. But standing by and watching a former colleague crash through the glass ceiling is pretty profound by any standards.
Foregoing a corporate career is not something I regret, but there are some amenities that I miss occasionally. Recognition is the biggie. I take my job very seriously and may do it exceptionally (er, most days), but not much gets noticed on a daily basis. On my best days, beds get made, kids get fed and I’m wearing make-up. On my worst, bills get paid (really) late, yesterday’s make-up will do, and there’s cereal for dinner. With reactions like “Captain Crunch? Cool!” my family clearly does not differentiate between my stellar or stinking days. There’s no promotion waiting down the pike for me, and no one’s going to take me out to lunch for acing the vomit virus that befell my toddler throughout the night.
It is a bitter, bitter pill that is swallowed each and every day. And there are constant daily reminders that the playing field is uneven. Routine phone calls from my husband throughout the day can set me off: out of nowhere I will suddenly become incensed that I must pick up his dry cleaning or bring in the garbage cans from the street. Do it yourself, dammit! I want to scream. Or during the course of midday check-in if I’m asked what I’ve been doing all morning I will stifle the urge to erupt into sarcasm (Scrubbing the effin’ toilets— what else would I be doing with a master’s degree?)
I am certainly not the first woman to question a life choice and I’ll be far from the last to complain about it. But as each year passes I just can’t help but feel the pangs of jealousy and insecurity bubble within me when the passing calendar months seem to mock me: Hello, February! As of today, you have now been home exactly the amount of years you commuted to work. Or worse, Greetings April, at the start of next week you have officially been OUT of work twice as long as you were actually IN work. Still worse, Happy Birthday August, now that your oldest child is a teenager, the suits in the back of your closet will forever be Halloween costumes.
Envy comes and goes for me. Some days I want to be thinner, blonder, tanner, healthier, even more organized than a friend appears. But some days I don’t care about any of that stuff at all. For the most part I am confident and self-assured. Why is it, then, that I always seem to care about my worth? And why must my worth be measured in terms of a fat paycheck or a great designer suit? That alone angers me more than being asked to make a meatloaf.
Not surprisingly, all my driving from schools to doctors to playing fields to play dates certainly allows time for introspection, and I believe a little jealousy is healthy for friends. It offers opportunities for genuine wake-up calls. While my friend’s lawn is looking rather lush right now, reflection has a way of putting things into perspective. When she tells me how much her heart hurts because she hasn’t seen her baby boy in two days because of work, I believe her completely because I know. And when I nonchalantly remark that I’m really not that busy with four kids and would love to take on some freelance work to help her out if she’s swamped, she pretends not to hear the desperation in my voice because she knows, too. Friends have that way of knowing.
Trading in my blue jeans for nicer clothes would be great, and finally having some disposable income would be even greater. But would I trade in my so-old- I-can’t-remember-where-it-came-from coffee mug for a fancy cardboard cup? Could I give up the sheer decadence of driving a child to school in my pajamas? Would I be able forego a Happy Meal for an expense-account lunch? Oh yeah. One day, for sure. Just not yet. For now, on the days when I am immersed in macaroni and cheese and picking Legos out of every hidden crevice in my couch, I am going to remain insanely jealous of my friend.
And then I’m going to make myself feel better by wearing my Manolos to the supermarket and wondering what my friend and I will get for Christmas next year.
Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in HuffPost. 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
Eyerollingmom 
