Tag Archives: Humor

Girls’ll Getcha

So I had the indescribable pleasure of viewing a few minutes of an MTV show which finds a young man looking for love while living in his parents’ basement. I am so not kidding. How great is that? Think The Bachelor with a really (really) small production budget. And a set of parents judging the girls from their living room sofa. Hilarity.

My point: for a suspended moment in time I shared a laugh with my teenage daughter and well, it’s been awhile. Thank God there are programs like these to keep us connected.

It’s been a long and difficult (understatement) month with her and I’m happy to report (exhale) that I see a light at the end of my tunnel. Either that or I’m confusing the gleam with another locomotive heading straight towards me (likely being driven by a teenager).

Got girls? Get wine.

I’ve survived the first of probably many teenage tsunamis with her and I’m still treading lightly as it fades to distant memory behind us. If I was unsure about our outcome before, I can now say with certainty at least one of us has moved on: she asked me tonight if she could join her friends in getting belly-button piercings for their fifteenth birthdays this year.

The old me (from 30 days ago) would’ve raised an eyebrow and twisted my grin into a spit of sarcasm (“Suuuuuure…let’s get matching ones”) but the new me is realizing the teenage brain filters simple conversations into odd, hormonal minefields. I raised an eyebrow, took a breath and paused.

“I’m not ready to talk about this right now,” was all I said.

“Okay, but will you at least think about it?” Cue in cautious nod. She walked away, humming.

See? I detected that bad boy before detonation. Apocalypse averted.

I’ll think about my reasoning before I get back to her (do I really care? wouldn’t it look great on her cute figure? didn’t my own mom let me get those ugly new Nikes with the yellow swish when I begged? again, do I seriously even care about this?). I’ve got some time to ponder.

We learn and we move forward. I’m learning — well, trying — to not jump to conclusions, or rush to judgment or bite down too hard on my inner cheek (because that takes awhile to heal and screws up my fondness for hot wings). And maybe she’s learning that her mother isn’t as ridiculous or unfair as she imagines. FIngers crossed.

Boys are clueless bottomless pits of gas. They just want to be fed on their trek to the next game level. Simple stuff. Girls are hard-wired for irrational and emotional fits of lunacy. They simmer, spout and burst when you least expect it. I’ve coined this stage My Elephant Years: Of Thick Skin and Grey Hairs……

So these days I’m comforted by daily doses of idiocy that I come across. Quick fix: If you ever want to feel really, really good about your parenting skills simply click onto MTV at any given time or google Lindsay Lohan. See? Much better.

Finally, from my sister: How do you make a car full of 12-year-old girls giggle uncontrollably in a car? Tell them that in high school you dated a boy named Kenny Balz.

There’s always ways to connect to the crazed teenage girl. Clearly you’ve just gotta be creative.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was just featured in the 2014 Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone.” Her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series yet she places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements. (Next would be the home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook. –

Good one, Kel.

Eyerollingmom’s Christmas Letter: Nothing But Ho Ho Honesty

2 Replies

I don’t send out Christmas cards anymore and if I’m being completely honest, I kinda sorta question why some people still do.

I’m not a Grinch. Hell no. I still partake in holiday cheer (ahhh, too much, some may say) but I guess I just feel that a lot of old traditions are rather redundant in today’s all-knowing-all-the-time existence.

I never planned to stop. It just sort of happened the year my mom passed away. Three months after she was gone I struggled to put up a Christmas tree, let alone send out a photo of my kids who weren’t looking much different than all the pictures I’d been throwing up on Facebook throughout the year. And of course anything good or eventful that went down in my life had already made it into a post, or text or blog. Really now, is anyone in need of a recap?

But I’ve always thought that if I did send out a Christmas letter it really wouldn’t be like everyone else’s. Here’s what I mean:

If I sent out a Christmas letter I’d say for sure, my year was just likes yours: full of happiness and thanks and blessings and joys and laughter and (hello, four perfect kids?) plenty of proud and boastful accomplishments. But then I’d feel compelled to add it was also a year filled with a whole bunch o’ family crap, a shitload of sadness, some bitter disappointments and (hello, four slightly imperfect kids?) too much embarrassment to mention.

I’d start by bragging about my oldest, my newly minted 21-year-old. He is my unchallenged sweetheart — mainly because he is hands down the most respectful of the tribe. To this day, he’d do anything I ask without so much as a sigh. I’d say how my heart swells with pride that he is a USAF Reservist and I am duly delighted that he’s going to school to become an EMT and paramedic. But then I’d have to admit that his lack of motivation to work at anything — ANY thing — full time makes my blood pressure surge. And worse, that when I see him playing video games for hours at a time I want to scream like a crazy person on a NYC street corner. Don’t even get me started on the beer cans in his room.

I’d then go on to gush about my daughter, who’s rocking her sophomore year at college and blossoming into a beautiful and engaging young woman right before my eyes. She’s really something else. I’m genuinely in awe of her compassion for the environment and her conviction to make it a better place. Though I’ll miss her like mad, I know one day soon her dreams and plans will take her away to some exotic place far, far away from me. Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit her staunch insistence that humanity is failing … troubles me greatly. Quite honestly, her woe is the world philosophy is a complete and total buzz kill at the dinner table and (sigh) an argument typically ensues when she really gets going. Truth be told, if I must nitpick, the toxic fumes festering in her room from the mess seem to be a blatant contradiction of the green earth she’s desperately seeking to save. (Apple cores: best placed in a compost heap rather than under that bra on the rug, no?)

I’d continue and blather on and on about my middle son, a high school sophomore, who is incredibly handsome and intelligent and easy going and popular and athletic and … and … so incredibly lazy I feel I should start researching boarding schools. Or wigs — since I’m dropping fistfuls of my own hair as I chase him around screaming about missing homeworks and vanishing assignments. I am convinced the sound of my voice is like a dog whistle to his immune ears and I fear he may fall out of bed one night and suffocate in the pile of wet towels next to his bed.

I’d then be forced to boast about his sidekick — my youngest — the king of the eighth grade and future president of the United States of America. Here is a fellow so incredibly beloved and kind and charming and funny … that his teachers and friends’ parents would be aghast at the shrill volume of his disrespectful back-talk to me. If he was heard by the masses on a particularly bad day he’d find himself one lonely little boy indeed — because parents wouldn’t let this Talented Mr. Ripley within earshot of their own children. If they only knew…

I’d tell about our loss this year of our infamous Grandpa Eggo, my stepdad, and only remaining grandparent on my side of the family tree. Just shy of his 92 birthday, he was one hell of a hot ticket – and — a bonus — had Carl Fredericksen from the movie UP as his celebrity doppelganger. He looked JUST like him and THAT was hilarious. We got a lot of laughs out of his couple of years without my mom as a buffer but man, I’d have to admit that the old guy drove us batshit crazy much of the time. What’s worse: his death leaves a distinct hole in the lives of my siblings, for we are now forced to reconcile our simmering differences without a neutral zone of connection. Being a grown-up becomes acutely harder when you’re left to deal with the messy family stuff without parental referees.

I’d close my Christmas letter with the unthinkable confession that some of my happiest moments are the rare occasions when I pull into my driveway after work and the house is completely – silently – empty. For a short time until the chaos begins again, I am blissful.

But then, then … as my final admission, I’d confess there are unexpected moments that catch me off guard … when the house is quiet and — to the contrary — I am consumed by a wordless panic. My thoughts drift to a time soon to come when I’ll finally be without the video games and the wet towels and the beer cans and the fighting and the back-talk.

And my dread is paralyzing.

Funny how life knows when to give you a swift kick in the ass when you need it.

In those minutes of solitude and fear I somehow understand my personal charade. Perhaps I bitch and squawk so much … only to mask how crazy I may become without them?

And that’s the truth.

So anywho, even though I don’t send out Christmas letters … or Christmas photos (please. No-shave November is killing any chance of that; who wants multiple Wolverines in their family photo?) I do always reflect on my passing year, only in a warts-and-all kind of way.

Wouldn’t it be great if more people did the same?

Merry Christmas, dear friends and readers!

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!)

Forever & Always: an 80s Kinda Gal

2 Replies

I have to admit (though if my kids were to miraculously start reading my blog I’d feign dementia) that as hip as I am (that’s right) I am, at times, well, a little lame. In fact, I’m actually all sorts of lame for a variety of reasons.

For starters, I totally fake my way through the French words in “Lady Marmalade.” I know….seriously. (Hypocrite lame?)

I am vain to a fault, having worn lipstick through four childbirths (a subtle mauve) and also popped every blood vessel in my eyes because I made sure my contacts were in, too. (Insecure lame?)

I have never seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” (Uncool lame?)

I think tattoos are a really bad idea on most body parts (unless you’re planning on being perpetually nineteen and skinny … then I stand corrected). (Judgemental — or jealous — lame?)

I can’t text without using proper punctuation (naturally it takes me five times longer because finding the apostrophes is always troublesome). (Grammar Nazi lame?)

I loathe baking. The only reason I even own a rolling pin is because one holiday season a neighbor creatively attached one to an invitation to a cookie swap and stuck it in my mailbox (of course prompting my immediate response What the hell is a cookie swap?) (Lazy lame?)

But perhaps my lamest admission is that I really (really) heart the 80s. (Aqua Net lame?) I spent my adolescence, my college years and my Melanie-Griffith-Working-Girl stage in that decade so who can blame me? John Hughes movies, white zinfandel pinkish-pretend wine, grocery shopping in track suits … (oh wait, maybe that last thing was just Long Island …). It was just a funny time – so big and brash and booming. The best.

Lately my friend Theresa and I have been debating the Worst. Song. Ever. Whenever we think of one we text it to each other (properly punctuated on my end). So, while I’m sitting at the Macaroni Grill and my phone beeps, I’ll look down and all I’ll see is “Raspberry Beret.”

I crack up.

And when she’s waiting at a practice field, her phone lights up and displays “99 Luftballoons.”

It’s been going on for a couple of months now and I’ve just realized that all of the songs we’ve been using are 80s tunes.

“Eye of the Tiger”

“China Girl”

“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” (my God, I think I just threw up a little in mouth just typing that one)

“(I’m Only) Human” (man, I hate that one)

“Shy, Shy” (funny: just texting the name Kajagoogoo alone is worth sending…)

Still good stuff.

Just some really (really) lame music.

And it was all played a couple of weeks ago at my high school reunion (I can’t even begin to go there yet because I’m still processing the visuals from it).

Maybe soon though.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was just featured in the Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone.” Her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series yet she places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements. (Next would be the home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook. –

About A(nother) Boy

Leave a reply

What? You want to know about my kid — your student? Pffft. You don’t have to ask twice.

I’ve been waiting for this homework assignment. And — since I already bared all about the other kid in a previous post — parenting rule #16 dictates I must now provide equal billing here.

When asked to “Tell About My Scholar” in a million words or less, here’s what I said to enlighten my son’s seventh grade math teacher:

Now that we’re a couple of weeks into the school year, it is likely Trevor has already charmed you. I am here to explain why.

Sure, there are the usual reasons: Affable? Compassionate? Kind? Check, check, check. But his natural tendency to be an all-around nice kid comes from a darker place. He’s actually making up for lost time. The truth is, he spent the first two years of his life crying miserably and awoke from every slumber angry and screaming and ready to rumble. No one ever knew why. It was almost as if he knew from the start he’d have an uphill battle for attention as the youngest of four children and wanted to make sure we all knew he was around. He’s been working that playbook ever since.

Even today when he fights with his siblings, he is the loudest. It’s actually kind of amusing. For certain you will witness none of this ridiculous behavior in your classroom, because he is the middle school Clark Kent of secret personas.

So yes, he’s a super awesome kid but he carries around this deep dark secret. It’s true; we have proof (ask him to tell you about “the picture” that one of his teachers kept on her desk for a while last year). I just felt you should know. If you ever have a student in need of a friend, Trevor’s your man. If there’s a task you need help with, he’ll be the first to offer. And unlike his brothers that came before him, he actually tells us about his school day. We’ll hear all the good, the bad, and the ugly algebraic equations that are kicking his tail (again, this constant chatter at home is simply a constant reminder that he is, well, around. Nothing more).

According to his stats, he is presently the only breathing middle schooler without a smartphone. If he doesn’t do well in your class , he knows this sad, sad statistic will not change for him. I imagine because of this he’ll work extremely hard in your class. (Fun fact: he did get a perfect score on his third grade Math MCAS … this keeps him on the Scholastic Leaderboard of Competition we keep on our kids but hello, third grade? — this star is losing its luster and he knows it).

I hope you enjoy Trevor as much as we do (you know, on his good days). He’s got a great sense of humor and a winning disposition. He’s one of our favorites but we’ll never, ever tell him.

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!)

About a Boy

1 Reply

(Unfathomable update: the *boy in this tale is in his mid-twenties now. BRB – gotta go turn to melancholic dust …..)

I had a pretty awesome “homework” assignment last night for the first week of school. One of my son’s teachers asked for an essay – “in a million words or less” – describing our child, our “scholar.” This was a seventh grade Math teacher and it struck me as brilliant for a couple of reasons.

First off, it’s seventh grade Math. Yawwwwwn. How much compelling personal interaction could possibly go down in a typical math class? In a 43-minute Algebra lesson with so much material and so many learning types to master, could there ever be any time for group anecdotes about weekend cookouts or opinions of the latest Adam Sandler movie? Mmmmm, doubtful.

Second, this particular son of mine is that kid – the fairly quiet student who laughs at the class clowns, and perhaps secretly strives to be one. I have no doubt his teachers don’t get an inkling of his true personality until after Christmas break.

So she wanted to know who her students are and blew right past the requisite fill out this questionnaire routine. Another hidden agenda of brilliance: how telling to hear the actual voices of parents. Who’s a braggart… who’s a worry-wart… who’s incapable of decoding their, they’re and there? I just thought it was great.

So off I went and had some fun. I just hope he had the kahunas to hand it in. It’s (naturally) extra-credit and we recently had checked off our “You-will-do-any-and-every-extra-credit-offered-to-you-because-you’re-a-dummy-if-you-don’t” discussion. We’ll see.
I hope his Math teacher has a sense of humor. Here it is:

There’s a lot you should know about my scholar Luke …..although much of it would make him turn six shades of crimson and want to crawl into his desk.

That little conundrum leaves me with little to reveal.

I guess he wouldn’t mind if I told you that I believe he’s a sharp lil’ whippersnapper, with his Mom’s love of humor and his Dad’s love of sports (because to Luke, ESPN really stands for Every Sport Possible No-lie-will-be-watched-on-every-television-set-at-all-times).

Luke won’t give you any trouble and certainly won’t be to blame for any nonsense that might arise within your classroom (because anything that happens will likely be his younger brother’s fault. Really. Go ahead, ask him.)

My scholar is a reflective kid, usually just observing the world around him, taking it all in, and keeping a lot of notes. He “gets” it.

He knows the words to every song on the radio.

Won’t talk to his mother about girls.

And is extremely well-liked (and that’s not just his mom talking).

(Caution: Do not tell him this. He already thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips, so in this house, we try to keep the compliments to a minimum.)

In general, I think you will thoroughly enjoy having him in your class. We kinda like having him around here, too. Especially on the days when he showers – then he smells realllllllllllll nice. (Actually, if I’m being truthful, I guess I have to mention that he showers every day. That’s a good thing for 7^thgraders, right? In fact, he showers so much that he’s almost at the 40-minute-shower stage of adolescence that starts peeling paint off the walls. So, he’s right on track. It’s all good.)

He’ll stay under your radar ….

….. and chuckle at the jokes that go over everyone else’s heads…….

Have fun with our scholar – we certainly do.

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!)

Kid-Free Vacations: Parenting Guilt or Brilliance?

1 Reply

I just returned from a short vacation, not only without the kids, but – for the very first time – having left them home alone without adult supervision. Before the speed dialers hit the DSS hotline, I guess I should point out that 50% of my dependents are, in fact, (cough) adults. Well, per their official *paperwork, sure they are. Legally I was good.

Quasi-adults or not, I’m not going to say it was without stress. Quite the contrary, in the days leading up to our departure I think my hair started falling out more than normal and a queasiness in my belly was brewing. Graphic headlines taunted my dreams: Selfish Parents Perish in Plane Crash … Kids Left Alone Arrested for Stealing Snacks, Claim Partying Parents Left No Food … Party House Sees $20k in Damages for Negligent Owners.

Good God. What was I thinking?

For the record, I challenge my husband frequently on daily matters both vital and trivial – you name it, I will argue it: parenting issues, furniture-placement, even which appetizers to order in restaurants. But when he was doing his best to convince me of a solo jaunt more than six months ago, well, it didn’t feel like much of a fighting matter because there seemed to be more pros than cons. We’d gotten a super cheap deal on both lodging and flights, our eldest would be turning 21 by summer’s end, and the remaining 3 were primarily self-sufficient (bathroom hygiene notwithstanding but I imagine with teenagers that issue won’t be disappearing anytime soon). Besides, our neighborhood watch is stellar and my kids knew it: my phone would rival the Batphone should any shenanigans arise.

But six months came quickly and by the time I should’ve started packing, I still wasn’t so sure I was comfortable with the decision.

“Maybe we should rethink?” I asked, my eyes landing on a yogurt container under the couch.

“My parents left me alone for a week when I was a junior in high school,” my husband countered. Ahhh. The ol’ Unsupervised ’80s defense. Lucky to be alive myself after that era, he was definitely not helping.

So I busied myself doing everything in my power to lessen any problems that might arise. I cooked for days, typed and retyped a multitude of lists, texted every neighbor within earshot of my address and threatened every one of my kids with their own personal Achilles Heel of punishment. If Project X was going to happen in my absence, everyone’s livelihoods were going down, one body at a time, dammit. It would be a race to the rat-out of epic proportion.

So we grabbed a couple of friends who like us, never came across a Happy Hour they couldn’t enjoy, and hopped over to Myrtle Beach for three days.

Now, Myrtle Beach is a fine and lovely place. It is also – in the middle of August – like lounging on the sun (hence their need for Happy Hours in South Carolina.)

And three days isn’t a particularly long time – especially when you’re on the clock of Only Got Three Days! – but hitting the ground running upon arrival helps.

We sat our sleep deprived selves in one beach chair after another (by day) and one bar stool after another (by night) and amassed some pretty memorable laughs in a mere 72 hours.

The kids called every so often and only one questioning text came in from the neighborhood watch. When I realized the house wasn’t going up in flames and no one seemed to be killing each other I had to (popular song reference ahead) let it go.

We had a rental car but we jumped into nightly cabs regardless to do our part to be responsible. Turns out, my kids were doing theirs.

When we arrived back my daughter (19) audibly sighed with relief when she got in from work. “I am sooo glad you’re home,” she said, slumping down on the couch with me. Awwwww, poor thing. This responsibility thing is exhausting, isn’t it?

My middle son (15) couldn’t wait to show me something cool.

“Mom, come here, check this out.” He was giddy.

He tapped the centerpiece fruit bowl, which contained a frightfully blackened banana and what appeared to be a couple of apples from the Clinton administration. Three thousand fruit flies shot up and swarmed crazily above it.

Super. Guess they found a new place to hang when the yogurt was taken over by ants?

Note to self: “Throw out rotting fruit” needs to get typed onto a list next time.

Who am I kidding – I’m not sure if or when there’ll be a next time. I’m fairly certain none of them even looked at my lists.

Besides, I need to wait until my hair starts growing back in before even thinking about it.

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!)

Cancun Can(‘t) Do

Leave a reply

Just visited Cancun for the first time this summer. Couple of friends, no kids and unlimited food and booze. As a bonus, a mildly-middle-aged (or, in-denial-about-it) gal like myself can feel pretty good about herself lounging around a pool with a bunch of confident Europeans, known globally for letting it all hang out. It was a rather delightful self-esteem boost.

A not so delightful self esteem boost: going out to a club one night. Clearly this decision should have been filed under “what were we thinking” the minute we found out the van was departing our resort for the club at 11:30. That’s pm. Still, we threw our shoulders back and crammed into that un-air-conditioned death mobile with reckless abandon. (”We’ll sleep when we’re dead!” became our vacation mantra.)

We were determined. Determined to actually ACT they way we FEEL. Determined to keep up with the hip twenty-somethings that were (inexplicably) hanging with us all week. Determined to return home to our kids with wild-n-crazy Mexican adventures.

After our eyes adjusted to the strobes, we made our way single-file (connected, chain-gang-like) past hordes of gyrating, thrusting, heaving, puking, sobbing, screeching teenagers (ahh…right…the drinking age is eighteen in Mexico). We huddled together in our resort-appointed table and stared. It was like an MTV marathon without commercials. I made the decision right there that my children would never, ever visit Cancun (or any other Caribbean island) until their honeymoons (Natallee Holloway anyone? Yeah, STILL freaks me out…).

We left before the wet-tee-shirt contest concluded, making our way to the exit past the authentic boxing ring that had been brought in for it. We’d heard that this club’s big finale culminated with the roof opening and “rain” pouring onto the dance floor. Excellent. Wet-tee-shirts for everyone.

No thanks, we were done. We were going to get our mildly-middle-aged-or-in-denial-about-it asses back to bed because we had a big day starting in a few hours.

Tequila volleyball began at noon.

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

Leave a reply

“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…

Leave a reply

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!)

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

Leave a reply

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

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!)