Tag Archives: Kids

London Table for One: Learning, Living & Leaving (or better) Mom Needs a Pint – Stat

I traveled to another country with my daughter and I left her there.

In the cab on my way to the airport in pre-dawn darkness with her apartment – excuse me, flat — fading from view, I went over the past week in my head. It seemed I’d blinked and suddenly all the planning and problems and logistical hiccups had passed and now it was time for me to go.

Oddly, I felt good. Better than good, I felt calm. Better than calm, I felt genuinely excited for her new adventure. She was going to be just fine.

I didn’t always believe this. Oh, hell no.

In fact, when she asked me to accompany her my knee-jerk reaction was an emphatic NOPE. You made this crazy, impulsive decision, my crushed heart shouted to my brain, I am not helping you with this. I was hurt. She was already living 2,000 miles from home. How far was far enough?

But this wasn’t about me. Knee-jerks aside, I knew that.

She’d accepted a London position within her company and immediately began purging her possessions, returning home to finalize her transition and prepare.

For the first time in nearly a decade she shared our home yet none of our past skirmishes – the hair in the shower, the food under the bed, the sleeping until midday – surfaced. She cooked dinners and hung around with our friends and managed all the details of her departure with a skip in her step. It was as if we both knew our time was fleeting and the petty spats of her youth remained mocking memories.

It was indeed awesome but not without headaches – or facial tics.

For six weeks I bore witness to how a millennial plans things. Fun fact: it’s a wee bit different than how a mom does. As her exit loomed, I became increasingly anxious at all the open loose ends of her international move but she was having none of it. At the risk of having my plus-one status revoked, I zipped it and ignored my growing apprehensions.

I took a deep breath and stole a mantra from my bestie who’d declared, at the start of her very first year as a new divorcee, a Year of Yes: 365 days of saying yes to every invitation, social suggestion or life opportunity that arose. Well, if she could do that, I marveled, sensing my own whine, and put on my Big Girl panties.

I declared this trip my own Week of Yes and went along with everything – and anything – that came up. Despite my daily dread or dogged reservations or downright disagreements with her many decisions, I went with the flow – her flow (Mom, it’s FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE) – and forced myself to chill out.

We left as soon as her Visa came – without her replacement bank card having arrived yet, without a guaranteed – or signed – lease and without any idea where we’d be sleeping on Night 2.

There were at least a dozen other unresolved open loose ends when we arrived.

She closed them one by one, taking some lumps for a couple of impulsive decisions, but in the end, everything worked out.

I allowed her to adult her way through every obstacle and steered clear of Mom Mode, resisting the urge to whip out a credit card for every expense or offer unsolicited advice.

I forced myself to stay silently in the background, left my phone turned off for the week and became, simply, the weighted blanket in the room.

While she researched and placed calls and signed reams of documents I read and did crossword puzzles and sat in the café chair facing the room like a mob boss, happy to people watch while she did her thing.

The many logistics were overwhelming. Selling all her life’s stuff, moving across an ocean and (oy, don’t get me started) coordinating shipment of a beloved dog was intense – as well as fraught with false starts and wire transfers and problems we didn’t anticipate.

I followed her around all week while she mastered the tubes – both over and underground.

I helped lug all her bedding (via the tubes) back to her place.

I drank as many pints as was necessary to become accustomed to all the neighborhood pubs near her new home address (this task, no surprise, a cinch).

I uttered not a syllable of complaint about sharing tiny beds or rooming with massive spiders (come on Brits – install window SCREENS!) and laughed it off when a lock of my hair hit the ground, burnt straight off using the wrong blow dryer.

It turns out, my calm demeanor proved to be a salve to her frazzled brain.

At the conclusion of the week over some wine, she thanked me for letting her figure it all out without any judgement.

So while I rode away in that cab, I found my initial throat-grip of worry had simmered to a slight buzzing beneath the surface that I embrace pretty much every day for all my children, regardless of their ages. Truly, that’s motherhood. Just another day I suppose.

She’s one of the most competent young adults I know, a rarity, for sure.

But it was still hard saying goodbye.

I tackled a myriad of feelings that week, mostly fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of leaving this tiny and beautiful creature in a place without knowing a soul, fear of everything Keith Morrison and Dateline duly taught me. But I never felt doubt.

I left her with an old photo of the two of us, in it her tiny toddler face radiating with badass confidence and fearlessness and I wrote on the back We Do Hard Things.

Because we do.

And we did.

And will continue to.

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!)

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

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

It was unavoidable: God Forbid mode was setting in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!)

In Memoriam: Waving Goodbye to Resolutions

Outsmarted by Mom? Pfft. Always.

A Momoir, Chapter 11: Parenting Dum-Dum Adult Kids is Stressful – But it Beats the Alternative

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I started writing this blog when my kids were little, way before I started taking joint supplements and sleeping with a white noise machine. The trials and tribulations of our lives have been well documented throughout the years because I’m hoping all the anecdotes will give my family something amusing to look back on when I’m busy haunting them from above (you know, since the whole baby book thing wasn’t exactly my strong suit).

At any stage, parenting’s never seemed a cakewalk but it’s always seemed relative. There was always fodder for material and especially for a blog, there was also a community for figuring things out. There was plenty of shared concern for surviving mystery hives or adolescent heartbreak or getting overlooked for the travel team (the injustice!) and there was never a shortage of advice (and commiseration) over lost homework assignments, kids incapable of getting to school on time or insufferable hygiene. We all muddled through together and motherhood didn’t seem insurmountable. My wise friend Jackie always raised her chardonnay to “Little kids, little problems.”

These days my adult kids have their own array of big-kid problems now but again, it comes with the calendar. They’re drowning in debt, juggling student loans, and trying to make rent. They’re realizing what a paycheck can cover and – more importantly — what it cannot. Dayum, life is expensive, they lament. Yes, it is. News flash: it always has been.

It’s difficult watching your kids misstep in adulting and even harder keeping it zipped when some of their decisions are not, I’ll say, advantageous to them. Poor decisions are tough to watch and even harder to witness when splashed all over social media (*throws head back, raises fists, gawwwwwwd, why is this not sinking in???). It’s also rough because we’ve come to know: if our kids are not asking for advice …. it’s usually a waste of breath offering it. My husband gets frustrated but I’m a bit more meh. Stop solving their problems with a fifty-year-old brain I often say to him. Or, when it’s time for the jugular: You did the same dumb thing when you were that age.

Still, even now, when most of their mistakes have far mightier – and costlier — consequences than a promposal gone awry (*cue Mom’s nagging Pay your fkkkking parking tickets!) I don’t mind this stage of parenting. I look at what’s going on with “little” kids today and I thank my lucky stars that time is behind me. I’m certain I’d be a lunatic trying to navigate motherhood in these times and I’m not so sure I’d agree with Jackie anymore; little kids seem to have way bigger problems now.

For starters, the social media is a complete nightmare. Kids going off the deep end because someone didn’t like their picture? Good grief. My heart goes out to teachers. I can’t even imagine what their days are like.

Add in the bullying, so rampant and accessible with (^^^) social media (Finsta?) and it is outrageously out of control.

Add in the heightened toxicity of enraged sports parents and it’s shocking. Horrible when my kids were playing, they are – according to headlines — downright homicidal now.

Add in the seemingly daily reports of lewd and lecherous adults in positions of authority and you’re left side-eyeing everyone. What. The. Effing. Effff.

Add in the desperation for Canada Goose, Louis Vuitton, Lebron Nikes or anything Kylie Jenner is shilling lately and it seems impossible to keep up.

Add in the school shootings.

And the mean girls now emerging before second grade.

And everything else that has succinctly squashed innocence and I say my kids figuring out how to keep their electricity on sounds way less dangerous.

Kids are getting snatched in broad daylight. I see faces from every state scrolling on my feed every single day. Kids are communicating with complete strangers online. Worse, they’re meeting up with total strangers.

I know, I know. I’m not naïve and I am aware all this terrible, horrible no good scary stuff has been going on forever. It just seems that the terrible, horrible no good scary stuff has reached a fever pitch with no ebb in sight. I’ll take a 30-yo ‘kid’ still living in my house over this any day, thankyouverymuch.

If I was raising little kids today, I’d be swimming against a tide of opposition and I would not be able to let it go and Elsa my way out of it.

I don’t want to know a thing about TikTok.

I don’t want to debate anti-vaxxers.

I don’t want to give to a Go Fund Me so your kid can go to Germany. Trust me: mine have never been and they are A-OK.

I don’t want to see breastfeeding or working or exercising or stay-at-home or ANY moms get shamed for doing ANYthing. This is total bullshit. Why does everyone feel entitled to expound negative opinions on anything that has absolutely nothing to do with them? It is 100% maddening.

Please. There’s even stupid stuff I wouldn’t be on board with (settle down, Target, no, I am not interested in buying decorations for the trunk of my car at Halloween. WHAT IS THIS?).

I just want things to go back to normal before I have grandkids, that’s all. We haven’t depleted all the normal in the world, have we? (Quite possibly: just got an early morning text from my bestie, alerting me that kids at her local university got in trouble for having a Corona virus party on campus –get it? Corona? Lol yes, but also: Sigh. Thank God there was no internet when we were in college.)

These be crazy times and my observations are neither new nor illuminating. I’m just glad my worries about pedophiles on the other end of video games are in my rear-view mirror and for that I am grateful. To all the moms of little ones fighting the good fight every day, you have my sincere respect, my best wishes, and my appreciative props. I’m sorry you must send in the list of ingredients on your bake sale brownies but I’m not sorry I missed that either.

If it’s any consolation I hear help might be on the horizon. There’s talk of lowering the voting age to sixteen (that’s a super good idea, right? she mulls, reminiscing about her own 16yo fashion choices in 1982) so maybe soon we’ll be saying Here comes Kanye to the rescue!

You guys can chew on that while I go hound a kid about the perils of late payments.

(Disclaimer to the Mom-Shamers: no humans were harmed in the writing of this blog, which was meant strictly for tongue-in-cheek, exasperated entertainment only. If any part of this this has angered you in any way, please: be better than me. Be Elsa.)

A Momoir, Chapter 8: High School Graduation – My Big Fat So What

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As my youngest’s high school graduation loomed recently I became increasingly thrown by the emotional parent posts ramping up on my Facebook feed. While I continued to post equally enthusiastic OMG!s over every Game of Thrones episode, I started to realize I wasn’t nearly as wrapped up in the upcoming milestone as the other moms.

At my attendance at each of the requisite senior assemblies I watched as these other moms passed around tissues – while I checked my watch, gauging my arrival to work.

I scrolled my feed daily, seeing one heartfelt sentiment after another.

Where did the time go???? (multiple punctuation marks)

I just can’t believe it! (multiple sad emojis)

So proud! (picture, picture, picture, pic…)

And there I sat, silently wondering Are we all talking about high school? Um, isn’t this supposed to happen?

I was neither sad nor melancholy and quickly suspected there might be something wrong with me. Sure, sure, sure I’d been at this rodeo three times already. But had I become world-weary? Jaded? Cynical? I mean, for a school *career, my kid had a pretty great run. He – like many of his friends – did well academically, had impressive moments on the field and on occasion, even garnered a few local headlines that at times made his head swell. Of course I was proud of him.

But (again) this was high school. My overall sentiment percolated under the surface: okay, great, kudos, nice job, way to go.

Now, move on.

I’m sorry (not sorry) it’s just never been something I’ve ever thought was a big deal. In fact it’s been unconditionally expected for all of my kids. Getting through high school was their only job and while I enjoyed every moment in an auditorium or bleacher and duly scrapbooked every news clipping, I’m ready to put it on a shelf and start a new one.

With a whole life ahead of them, I’ve always been more excited to see what my kids will all do when left to their own passions and inclinations.

Now, before the knives come out, really, I have not lived this last year of high school without all emotion. Far from it (Facebook can confirm). I have enjoyed and embraced his every memorable moment and even have a favorite.

Unbeknownst to him, there is one particular Mom Moment I will hold onto for a very, very long time (you know, until the moment gets taken over by this kid running NASA or curing cancer or I don’t know, taking out the trash without being asked).

My paramount takeaway from my final kid’s high school experience was actually my own experience during his last hurrah, at his last assembly. As the graduating class walked in, swishing by in their robes, past the parents, and onto the stage, I (looked up from my watch, naturally and) caught a glimpse of some other parents as he walked by them.

We live in a small Norm-from-Cheers town, where everybody knows your name and most, if not all, parents know each other by a history of six degrees of K-12 separation (or siblings). Many of these parents – better than me, who’d arrived early and had scored the enviable, photography-worthy aisle seats (unlike myself, sitting in the back, closer to my car) watched as my kid walked by. As he did, and since I had the panoramic of the auditorium from my vantage point in the back (totally planned) I caught sight of some parents and saw their smiles broaden as he passed. I scanned some more faces and saw it repeated, and witnessed the creases in their crow’s feet deepen, too. Some others applauded more heartily and fist bumped him as he neared their aisle seat. My insides swelled. There was such tremendous and genuine affection and fondness in their expressions I found myself only watching the crowd as he passed. Those that know him were beaming and it was a vision I will never, ever forget (memory be damned – it’s in a blog now — #internetforever).

I don’t think anything could ever make me any prouder as a parent.

(In fact as soon as those wet towels are picked up I am soooo posting about it.)

Without question, I highly recommend reading the room whenever your kid walks in. It just may give you all the validation you’ll ever need in life.

And – at least for me – that milestone will most definitely outshine a high school graduation every time.

# # # #

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!)

A Momoir, Chapter 7: Hello, Happiness? Are You Out There? Hello? Hello…?

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A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child.

Despite being traced as far back as Jackie Kennedy, likely even earlier, I’d never heard this saying until my sister nonchalantly said it over Thanksgiving. My mind keeps coming back to it because it’s actually quite profound if you think about it. These days especially.

Why? Because as I’m finding out, a lot of kids really aren’t that happy. And if that saying holds any truth … good grief. There goes my dream of stress-free evenings of karaoke in my retirement village because there’s a fair chance I may be fretting forever.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately for good reason. With four kids in varying stages of young-adulthood there’s a smattering of unhappiness in my family on any given day. I can’t seem to keep up with it and most days I don’t know how to make it go away. As all moms know, the feeling of helplessness is the worst.

On the surface, my kids have lived fairly mundane, non-traumatic lives. Typical extraneous factors aside (not making a coveted team, middle school bullying, romantic heartbreak) they’ve all encountered life’s disappointments with little residual scarring. It might’ve helped that most of their setbacks were met with my steely shrugs. Hell, they were taught at an early age that toys from the dollar store would not last the car ride home: yes, you can have it but no crying when it breaks, k? Dry those eyes, get that chin up and move on. It’s not the end of the world. This too shall pass. Glass half full.

You get the picture.

But it seems my tough tactics notwithstanding, things got a little muddy in between SATs and graduation gowns. The Expectation vs. Reality of the real world is crippling our young adults and now I — and dozens of friends — are finding ourselves helping them navigate a reality they have been utterly unprepared for. I know plenty of kids (“kids” in their twenties) who are floundering, feeling unfulfilled, filing away their diplomas to work as bartenders and nannies and quitting six figure salary jobs because they’re just not happy. Um, what?

This confounds me for when I think back at my own young-adult journey it didn’t seem so … I don’t know, difficult. After turning my back on the circus that was high school (because hello, high school is a circus for every generation. Period.) I went off to college – where I stayed for four straight years: dropping classes, adding classes, switching majors, drinking too much, kissing wrong guys, coming home at Christmas because … everyone did. Three days after graduation I pounded the pavement with a neat stack of freshly typed resumes under my arm and took the first job offer that came. Thus began Chapter One of My So-Called Adult Life.

It was 1988 and we were all following the bread crumbs sprinkled by Gordon Gekko and Tess McGill (“….Leeeeeeeeeeet the river ruuuuuuuun!”) and when those first jobs sucked (at $14k a year most did), we typed up new resumes and got new ones. Chin up, move on.

We didn’t backpack through Europe. We didn’t take a gap year. We didn’t even come home from college until they closed the dorms on us. Today, if I had a dollar for every kid I know that went off to college and didn’t finish out the year, lord, I’d have some purdy nice things to unload on Ebay.

Sadly, our kids are setting out to find euphoric satisfaction in life and they’re becoming disillusioned to discover that is a most elusive achievement.

Recently I had a conversation with my daughter (23). I’ve written of her before because she is a brilliant being and a remarkable soul. She finished college in less than four years and is, ahem, no dummy. Currently she’s living across the country, experiencing the beauty of other regions, seeking her own life satisfaction and is – for the most part — happy. But she shared a thought with me that pointed out this dilemma rather succinctly. She said her generation has been groomed (thank you, Ted Talks and progressive professors) to be bold and follow their dreams. To engage in their passions. To focus on what makes them happy and just do it.

Yet what she and her friends are finding – all these years later – is that their passionate happy dreams … are not exactly paying their bills. Life, it turns out, is expensive. Some are becoming slowly cynical by this stark realization and finding themselves in a Now what? conundrum.

What’s so wrong with following your passion on the weekends? she mused.

I concurred and admitted that while I love to write, if I was forced to give up my day job and stare at my laptop forced to write every single day I might begin to loathe it. Then I reminded her that most adults (cough, my age) don’t go skipping off to their jobs each morning singing songs and shitting confetti on their way but most would agree we’re happy nonetheless. Chin up, move on.

Her remarks made me believe that – despite the constant worry that comes with parenting a child from afar – the kid’s going to be alright. Luckily, she’s starting to get it (soooooo, talk to your bothers, will ya?).

Still, it got me thinking. Since all these grand ideas about happiness being force-fed into youthful minds are not turning out to be so grand after all, maybe there needs to be some menu changes on that advice buffet they’re chowing on.

For starters, we’re insisting that kids select college majors while they’re still in high school. That is absurd. The sheer amount of times my kids change their clothing or hair styles leaves me doubtful they’d ever stick with any decision that seemed like a good idea at 16 or 17.

We’re also jumping aboard a crazy train when it comes time for college applications. Here’s a thought: if a kid can barely get him/herself up and off to school – FOR FREE – what makes any parent think it’ll happen when they’re hundreds of miles away with thousands of dollars on the line and a gazillion other distractions?

Funny. We’re telling kids to go off and journey to find their life happiness when they’ve never used public transportation … or written out a check … or paid a bill … or even fully understand the words remit, interest, fee …

I don’t know. Today is not the day I can solve this problem. It just seemed a helluva lot easier being content when we were blindly following the Brat Pack and dreaming about DeLoreans.

I keep my fingers crossed that my kids will come to learn that their road to happiness is winding and full of red lights …

… and that sometimes being stuck in a traffic jam allows a person some needed time to think about the direction s/he’s headed in …

… and that it’s always okay to change your course. Always.

(SHORT READ!) Ugh. My Husband was Right. (I hate that)

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pigs

(pigs in blankets — my idea, not his)

I don’t always listen to my husband. I mean, come on, the guy sprouts jazz hands and waves them in the air (like he just don’t care) on dance floors. But he’s pretty smart (never returns from NY without bagels and knishes for us) and every now and then he comes up with a pretty good idea.

He read a recent blog of mine and after offering his obligatory praise (see? smart) remarked that while he really liked it (dramatic pause while I failed in arching an eyebrow – seriously I am a biological bore – can’t roll my tongue either)… he said he thought it was a little long and remember when I used to write shorter, funnier pieces?

After I killed him in his sleep in my mind, I realized: Hmmm. He’s right.

A boatload of years ago I started blogging for the online version of a magazine-that-shall-not-be-named and used to post a slew of stories and funny experiences of my life. Kids being a**holes? Wrote about it. Husband being insensitive? Fer’surrre: written in all caps.

After that rag unceremoniously shut down their site (bitter much, T?) and I forged out on my own, I kinda got away from that. Well, also in fairness, my kids hit their adolescence stage of development when, you know, every incident was a CASTASTROPHE and their mom was SO INCREDIBLY LAME so I did my best to protect their identities and embarrassment.

Well, now that they’re all cusping on adulthood and clearly could care less about their mom’s online presence (Breaking News, Kids: Mom’s written a blog for a decade) I’m going to try to get back to that every now and then.

Sometimes I just want to rant (really? Elizabeth Smart’s kidnapper is released? That is 100% bullsh*t).

Sometimes I just want to showcase my coolness (did you see Emila Clarke’s new tattoo of 3 baby dragons?) *flips hair * Sure, I follow her on Insta.

Sometimes I just want to throw a little shade on people I’ll never meet (MARIAH: PLEASE STOP WEARING LINGERIE IN PUBLIC).

Sometimes I just want to spotlight stupidity (must we still be reminding women not to throw their nasty sanitary products in the toilet with embossed signage?)

And sometimes I just want my friend Mike to read some of my stuff because he’s always saying, “You’re funny, T, but that sh*t’s too long for me to get through.” I get you, Mike, I get you.

So for these quick insights I’ll be keeping my eyes on the word count and when there’s a super short outburst coming your way I’ll use SHORT READ! or something like that in the title. Maybe I’ll just post Mike’s picture. Haven’t decided yet.

I’ve only got a few words left before signing off on this preliminary post of Seinfeld-nothingness so I’m just going to let everyone know I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole which is the “My Favorite Murder” podcast. Oh. My. Gawwwwd. I just love it. It is the hilarious reason why I’ve stopped interacting with my family while I’m cooking dinner and (admittedly) my coolness factor would have increased a year ago had I listened to my daughter and started it when she first told me about it. Their tagline is “Stay Sexy. Don’t Get Murdered.” They are the best.

(Found a fork in the bathroom again, though, sooooooo kids are still being occasional a**holes. Will have to get to that next time.)

Okay, that’s it. I’m out.

MFM

(check them out)

(and this is Mike after reading one of my blogs….)

mike

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

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

Chapter 1, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/07/29/a-collection-of-eyerolls-chapter-1-yes-billy-joel-we-will-all-go-down-together/

Chapter 2, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/08/13/chapter-2-sometimes-kids-suck-a-lot/

Chapter 3, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/09/22/chapter-3-sorry-were-tied-all-kids-are-filthy/

Chapter 4, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/12/02/a-momoir-chapter-4-a-moms-plea-to-seth-rogen-enough-with-the-masturbation-already/

Chapter 5, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/04/20/a-momoir-chapter-5-the-magnitude-of-the-middle-aged-mom/

Chapter 6: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/08/24/a-momoir-chapter-6-im-not-always-like-you-mom-but-thats-okay/

Getting’ the Band Back Together: My Reverse Empty-Nest Experiment

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I should probably start with a disclaimer: the blog you are about to read ends in a cliffhanger.

Alas folks, there will be no binge-reading to the end: you and I both will find out the outcome together in due time.

My two older children have returned home this summer, after living on their own for the past couple of years. Also, since starting college my third-born will be home full-time this summer as well. So now, after getting a (somewhat) sneak peek of what an empty nest might look like I’m back to a full house. Alrighty then. Anyone else excited to see how this (interim) honeymoon lasts?

I say somewhat because my nest hasn’t truly been empty. My youngest, still in high school, has always been here but you remember those days: between school and sports and work and a tendency for Taco Bell, his presence is usually only detected by his residual scent of deodorant or fresh globs of toothpaste on the counter (and mirror and floor and…). Plus my middle guy has been coming and going all year from his local college so sure, there’s been plenty of noise and laundry churning throughout the calendar.

I say interim because both adult children that have ventured out into the world have plans to resume their independent adult trajectories in the fall so this is basically a pit stop for them. A breather. An extended visit. I am a little more than well aware once our Summer of Love is over this might definitely be it for our party of six.

I’ve had some time to come to terms with our last hurrah but not so much the onslaught of well, stuff that comes with this reunion. And by stuff I really do mean stuff. The carloads of boxes that kept coming through the front door and up the stairs were anxiety inducing. With every Rubbermaid tote that passed I couldn’t help but feel the rooms shrinking in my once-spacious home.

Still, a few deep breaths exhaled and I turned on my heels and carried on.

I’m thinking my kids might be a little surprised to find their mom is a lot less uptight than when they were last here.

I’ve always run a pretty tight ship. You know, the usual: rules, respect (really, feel free to check out any earlier posts about my oldest son surviving high school with less electricity than the Amish. He’s pretty good at math but I’m fairly certain it’s because he may have been grounded and gotten his calculator taken away, too, so he had to adapt). I was always a stickler for mundane, common courtesy because seriously people, just pick up after yourselves and Psycho Mom stays dormant. I’ve always kept a relatively tidy (please don’t look closely at the baseboards) house. But the sheer volume of items currently dumped throughout the length of my second floor– approximately 2 apartments worth – has morphed my steely resolve into unashamed submission. No joke, there are presently areas of my house that are in violation of EPA regulations. But you know what? Rather than fret about what people might think about us filthy Americans (why bless your heart, is that two 55-inch televisions side by side???) I’m following the lead of a Disney princess and letting things go. All those cups and shoes and cereal bowls and food wrappers and sink hairs are rolling right off my furrowed brow for a few short weeks.

It’s a downright Fortnite free-for-all up in that family room right now but yes, while I chant to myself I can do this, I can do this, sometimes I catch myself grinning.

Oddly enough, I really, truly don’t mind the temporary chaos and disaster zone. Could it be that I’m older? Maybe a little bit more tired? Heck, I’ve written enough this year about life’s unexpected curveballs so I’m certain that silent thunder of time swooshing by is factoring into my Brand New Me. Whatever it may be I’ve decided to embrace my dog days of summer with my big, fat (filthy) family and ignore the mess.

It was simple serendipity that brought us all back under the same roof, not a grand master plan and (sniff) no one missing their mommy. It just kinda worked out, what with leases and jobs ending and future plans starting to gel into different zip codes.

So now my beds are full (although aarrrgh! this has significantly affected my options of refuge when there’s a rumbling bear dad sleeping next to me) and sometimes even the couches are full, too. I’ve come down many a morning to a sleeping figure in a room with lights on and electronics still buzzing. In the olden days that stuff used to chap my ass and I’d screech until the guilty retreated back to his own room. But now when I spy it, I turn off the juice, tiptoe out the door and go off to work.

It’s a mind shift. Rather than focus on all the frustrations that used to sour my mood almost daily, I am choosing instead to spend my summer in wonder.

I wonder if any of my kids even notice how much I’ve mellowed.

I wonder if the older ones are hissing a collective “What the %@&#*!!*” when I go to sleep before the younger ones even come home at night.

I wonder if my mom is rolling in her grave, seeing I’ve eschewed my own upbringing and have decided not to require rent/room & board from any of my adult children passing through this summer. I know, I know, I debated for a long time about this because I’ve held to it in the past. It’s never about the money (although, lord. that grocery bill). Plainly, I want my kids to think of their home as a place they can always come to, no matter what, without conditions, with no questions asked. Since this is likely the last time we’ll be living together I really want this time to be a happy memory for everyone. So, I’m sorry, mom, forgive me. Everyone’s getting a financial hall pass this summer.

I wonder if the plans my kids are making — the determined, fearless and optimistic blueprints they’ve designed to move across the country and move in with their sweethearts in search of adventure — will all work out.

I wonder if my younger ones will follow their siblings’ lead and leave their folks rattling around a big old house in due time.

I wonder if we folks will find ourselves kicking up our heels when they do… or living a plot twist by leaving it all behind to follow them.

I wonder about all these things as I’m food shopping and cooking and cleaning and stepping over things and sharing cars.

So yes, the rent and the laundry and the grocery bills and the mess … it’s all getting my Who Cares shrug for a little while because I’m enjoying my summer.

I find myself reveling in the late-night banter of siblings. It fills me completely.

I catch myself straining to listen to snippets of podcasts through bedroom doors and over shower water. I am fascinated with their interests.

I become elated to find everyone happens to be home for dinner on any occasional evening. Even if it’s a small 30-minutes for burgers on the grill before everyone scatters again, it’s a huge 30 minutes.

Huge.

But about that cliffhanger: we’ll just have to wait and see if Pollyanna is still skipping around her house in August picking up wet towels and humming sweetly about pole vaulting to get to her washing machine. Who knows, she might be long gone by the end of July (truth: it only took a few weeks before I declared no one was getting their favorite foods on my shopping list if their rooms weren’t picked up) so that should be interesting.

For now, we’re just taking it one day at a time.

Because every parent knows …

things go like this …..

to this ……

In a heartbreak heartbeat. xoxo

A Momoir, Chapter 5: The Magnitude of the Middle-Aged Mom

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I’m at that age where my chin hair is growing in quicker than my leg hair. It’s okay, so far there’s not a lot of it. Just the occasional (cough, frequent) white, barbed wire-ish strand that I’ll absent-mindedly touch, then maniacally pick at, then frantically keep feeling for, then obsess over for the remainder of the day until I can yank it. (I now keep tweezers in my desk at work. I also keep fiber powder in there, too, so I bet you can tell where this is heading.) It’s not pretty but it turns out there are far worse things to fret about once you reach The Milestone birthday.

I try to remain positive but I’ll admit I’m finding middle age to be quite galling. Things are happening to my body utterly out of the blue, completely without reason and entirely against my will. Yes, there are things women who’ve celebrated The Milestone know are coming. We’ve been duly cautioned that hitting a certain age may find our hair turning to straw, our necks morphing into topical maps and our midsection gaining independence as its own sovereignty. We’re also aware that despite how much we slather, our crypt-keeper hands will forever tattle our true age. But hang on now. There is some serious unpleasantness happening on the downslope of that hill that people keep leaving off the memo. Some of that stuff probably deserves a heads up.

For instance, how come no one ever tells us we will never sleep again?

FortheloveofGod, most of us haven’t even caught up yet from the sleep deprivation of having babies. It is cruelly ironic that this bombshell comes on the heels of hearing every fitness expert alive shouting the same warning: that women cannot ever (EVER) lose weight unless we are getting a good night’s sleep. Whaaaaat?

Where’s the asterisk on this throat-punch revelation that also reveals – SURPRISE! – 90-minute-intervals of (let’s call them) naps are your new nighttime from this day forward.

Every single night I find myself sweltering … until I am convinced I am frost-bitten … or I am passed-out-exhausted …. until I am wide awake an hour and a half later – for the rest of the night. My better half and I (wisely) upgraded to a king-sized bed a few years ago and between our alternating aches and pains and our temperature battles and our long-nights-journeying-into-days… I’ll be dammed if that bed sometimes just isn’t big enough. It really blows.

Also, speaking of missing chapters in the guidebook, what about the poo? (That opening paragraph wasn’t a red herring; you knew this was coming. ) Good grief, just when we’ve got diapers AND adolescence (those inimitable non-flushing years) in our rearview mirror, all of a sudden poo is a thing again? What. The. Fkkkkk? I used to go away for entire weekends and – legit – not go to the bathroom until I was safely back home three days later (that freaked out the husb in the worst of ways). I used to marvel at friends who could effortlessly go multiple times a day, whenever and wherever they wanted to (complete freaks, if you ask me) because nope, that was not me at all. Welp. No sooner did I blow out a few dozen candles on a birthday cake did a tsunami of change sweep in. I’ve had more times when I’ve entered a ladies room to pee and — what the. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if another baby had dropped out of my body. Damn doctor-recommended fiber (now you understand the aforementioned office staple, next to my tweezers).

At this point though, a couple of years into my brave new world of Milestone Menopause, my reaction is a more mellowed meh and a shrug. Sigh. Tis just poo.

This getting old thing is not for the weak.

Without question, there are some pretty awful things about middle age: the overwhelming feeling of incompetency that comes with re-entering the work force (or – kill us — the dating game), having to navigate the holy hell that is social media (screw you, Snapchat, you’re stupid), even the phantom pains that spring up for no apparent reason (like rising from the couch. UGH). Throw in ridiculous weight gains and all the daily directives to give up sugar and dairy and alcohol and animal protein and carbs and be sure to walk six miles a day and do yoga stretches and meditate and take your Me Time and enjoy life (without dairy or alcohol or animal protein or carbs) and OHMYGAAAAWD. Who saw this coming? Remember when we used to complain about baby throw-up on our shoulders?

Deep breath.

Here’s the glass half full: It’s not all doom and despair. There are some super cool things about middle age, too. It is without question a great, great time to be a mom. Our kids are getting older, becoming real people, doing awesome things and becoming more companions than charges. Somewhere down the road they become fun: we can now play off-color board games with them and watch R-rated movies without hiding under pillows with embarrassment. Another truth: I am a completely different mom than I was so many years ago, a lot calmer and less uptight. Hell, I’ve even stopped screaming. Now I go low: the more my kids yell in protest (because hello, I’m not dead – there are still RULES, PEOPLE) the lower my voice gets when reacting to their nonsense. It’s like a villainous whisper out of a Saw movie and I highly recommend it; kids can’t grasp what hit them when we start acting like Anti-Mom, the total stranger who’s shown up to guide them from this day forward. Trust me, good times.

Middle age also gives us a boatload of hall passes for dumb things. We can completely ignore pop culture now because it has very little to do with us and that’s a blessing. Remember when it did? Remember when a sexy, ripped sweatshirt, some leg warmers and a dream made us believe we could escape a steel town? Remember when we wore business suits with (cringe) sneakers and socks and didn’t think for a minute it’d hurt our chances at a promotion? Remember how we worried if our lives measured up without city friends or coffee shops or Manolo Blahniks?

Turns out, a surge of self-confidence comes in with The Milestone and makes us realize we could care less what people think about our minivans and mom jeans. I don’t understand any song on the radio and I don’t want to because it seems everyone’s supposed to be grinding or smoking weed or living the thug life. Please. I’m happy to stay out of the loop on a lot of things now. Pass the Dutchie and allow me my presets of classic rock stations, thankyouverymuch. Keep your Kardashians and if I need a role model I’ll just Google Christie Brinkley because holy mackerel, have you seen her lately? — that chick is ridiculous

We’ve been liberated: anyone out there really give a rat’s ass about Cardi B? Didn’t think so.

We’re in a pretty good place now for sure but I’d be remiss if I didn’t reveal the absolute worst thing nobody ever tells you about hitting The Milestone. This one’s a doozie and I completely understand why no one talks about it. It’s the freight train that body slams you and knocks out your breath and is far more sinister than sleepless nights and bowel issues and belly fat and reading glasses in every room of the house.

What could be so bad, you ask?

How about the insane ticking of time – more like a Telltale Heart thumping – that is constant within your head?

Once you’re over The Milestone mountain there’s rarely a day that ends without at least one thought about the passage of time. It usually catches me by surprise when I least expect it, on the most innocent of occasions, and some days it’s just devastating. I once scrolled past a Facebook meme and became paralyzed at the words:

“One day you will pick up your child for the very last time and not even know it…”

The raw truth of that statement shattered me. My mind raced to try to remember. When did I last hoist any of them up onto my hip? How old were they… five? Seven? Eight? How could I not know?

How could I not know?

That simple sentence stayed with me – and saddened me – for days.

Another time my son tried to drum up some laughs by popping in an old video of his mom — super-duper un-sober — at a neighborhood party a dozen years earlier. Alright, alright, alright, while not my finest mom moment, I’ll admit it was pretty funny. But as the tape played I soon became fixated at the sight of him — my tow-headed little prankster — running around the scene in the background, no more than 5 years old. It was like falling down a rabbit hole. I became transfixed, watching him jump into my lap and snuggle into my neck, my neck which now, a dozen years later, may be morphing into a topical map.

It was debilitating. I pretended to laugh along with him in present day but inside … my heart was aching at the past, watching both his little hands hold my face and kiss me sweetly.

My eyes flickered between the screen and his college-age, muscular, hirsute frame.

How in the world did I get here so fast?

Tick tick tick.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

I don’t care about my crows feet. I don’t mind the girth of my muffin top. And being ready for bed by 9pm most nights really doesn’t bother me, either.

But the ferocious speed of traveling down the other side of the hill?

That is without question the absolute worst part about hitting The Milestone.

Really. I’d take the poo any day over that.

* * * * * *

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 Thongand 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 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!)