Tag Archives: Kids

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you will feel the Mom joy once again.

Happens every time.

Happy Mother’s Day to All of us!

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

Desperately Seeking the Humor in Perfect(ly Flawed) Children

4 Replies

I used to blog a lot more often than I do now and coming up with a legitimate excuse for the slowdown has been well, trying. It’s certainly been easy enough to wallow in a series of unfortunate events, specifically, that my original blog site of 5+ years just up and shut its doors with a month’s notice. It forced this self-proclaimed techno-tard to start anew, without a built in (and – cough – ego-soothing) fan base of hundreds of readers that I’d come to kinda sorta delight in. I’m still clumsily navigating my way through what millions of other bloggers do with ease and the truth is, sifting through (and sure, reposting) five years worth of material is sometimes easier than coming up with new and exciting stuff. It shouldn’t be this hard but when a personal pity party combines with life whizzing by at a Nascar pace, it’s daunting in more ways than one.

I still own four kids and (God Almighty, YES) they’re all still doing incredibly stupid and blog-worthy things but here’s the thing: as we’ve all aged in the years since I first began telling tales about them, it now seems to be taking longer – wayyyy longer — to find the humor in all their trials and tribulations.

Almost unbelievably it seemed one day I was spilling stories about a kid hawking his Dollar Tree fig newtons for lunchtime profit and the next I was gasping for air in a teenage tsunami of sneaking out, drinking, lying, denting fenders, …

What the …?

Kind of a bummer, right?

I find myself suddenly pondering when and how this particular nonsense might become hilarious and where, oh where, are those damned little Legos that used to claim my unsuspecting arches and find me howling in fury? If I had a dollar for every time I ranted about wet towels on the floor I’d have a down payment for a liquor store I now need to get me through this adolescent and early adulthood stage of development. It’s seriously making me pine for the sleepless nights of infancy.

Little kids, little problems. For sure.

So yes, I’ve been a bit stuck for a while.

Lucky for me I’ve discovered that life can surprise you, can inspire you and can smack you in the ass every so often and make you feel creative again. Thanks to some pretty amazing people I have decided to try to get back on my horse and get this blog thing up and running more frequently.

For the inaugural Boston performance of “Listen to Your Mother” I spent my Saturday on stage with some ridiculously inspirational women. I sat among a Teacher of the Year, a Boston Globe columnist, a bunch of published authors, an adoptive mother of nine (not a typo) and a slew of other professional and remarkable women I at times couldn’t even comprehend why I was with. I’ve really got to admit, I couldn’t help but feel electric amid them.

I soaked in undeniable energy from my co-performers but also had a different, more personal source of motivation for wanting to be a better blogger. The faces of my kids were in that audience and they were beaming. That was kinda cool. Even my daughter, the topic of my adored piece, was smiling. Fun fact: she had the chutzpah to take a bus in from college to see the show – even after I’d texted her the photo of all the empty liquor bottles I’d just found under her bed …). That girl’s got moxie. Like her mutha. I like it!

Maybe seeing their mom up there “killing it” (their words) was more cool than it was embarrassing. Maybe all the dumb-dumb things they’re doing right now really aren’t that funny but probably are very universal for parents of high school and college kids. Maybe continuing to blog about them might make other moms realize (sing it, Billy Joel) that we will allllllllll, go down, TOGETHER.

So I’ll go back to jotting down all my little thoughts like I used to do (because now that Middle Age is my friend, these ideas and anecdotes fly in …. then out … of my head without a shadow of proof they ever existed to begin with (ugh… gotta write it down sistas, ya got to……) because every now and then a bunch of funny thoughts makes a funny little blog.

I’ll leave you with my unexpected morning: Fourth born (seventh grader) tells me that after a week’s vacation, he was up at 4am “almost” throwing up. It’s not that I don’t love my Little Baby Fug to the moon and back, but (sigh) he is my pathological liar. Since I had to spend my morning screaming and grounding and taking away electronics and unhooking Xbox AND changing the wifi password… I was steamed. Who pads their morning routine for crap like this? Not me. When I came home today he was working on a poster/project that mysteriously went untouched all week.

He probably won’t get sprung until Memorial Day. Dummy.

See? I’ve got tons of these.

Stay tuned.

Another fun fact: this was originally published 2014. See? Proof that we all get through this. We win!!! You just have to keep a list of all the wifi passwords!

* * *

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!)

All Hail the King

3 Replies

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

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

Nine parent teacher conferences in one night? No sweat.

Sports practices every evening? Got it.

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

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

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

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

Grrrrrrr……

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But every once in a while we get something right.

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

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

Follow Eyerollingmom on Facebook …. and Twitter!!!

The Good, The Bad & the “Girls”

Sleep Me off My Feet (PLEASE)

1 Reply

When I was in college, you knew it was time to start getting ready to go out on Saturday night when my roommate, Theresa, exited the shower, walked across the apartment in her towel, and cranked up “Caribbean Queen.”

It was like a dog whistle.

Within minutes, bathrooms were bustling, Stiff Stuff was spraying and lips were lining (with precision).

And it was 10pm.

Nowadays, if 10pm rolls around you can be damn sure I am hoping my night is almost over. Why? Because I am freaking tired, that’s why.

I’m not exactly proud of it but I’m certainly not ashamed by it either because I know I am faaaaaar from alone. I want to sleep so badly but all my kids are at their rite-of-passage vampire stage so I’m outta luck. I have teens coming in later on weekends and that stinks. I have ‘tweens staying up later on weeknights and that stinks worse.

I know we all signed the (We’ll) Sleep (When We’re Dead) Contract when we became pregnant and that was all fine – back then. But for the love of God, was it signed in placenta fluid? Is there an expiration date?

Listen, I’m entitled to be a little cranky. I happen to be running this show alone now. My husband’s job keeps him out of town a lot and I must admit brag that I’ve gotten awfully good at keeping things afloat as a single parent. So long as everyone’s alright with egg sandwiches for dinner and a minimum of clean socks, I’d say this machine is running incredibly smoothly, thankyouverymuch.

But I have to be honest. I am beat, man. Throw in the Middle Age First Amendment (Thou Shalt Not Sleep Three Consecutive Hours Once One Hits 40 Years Old) and you are looking at an explosive yet very potential mixture of sleep deprivation and homicide.

I can’t be like my kids and catch up with sleep on Saturdays because come on, there are dogs to be walked and husbands to reconnect with over coffee and — you know – that litany of things on a never ending Weekend To Do List to tackle.

And forget lazy Sunday sleep-ins because let’s be real, we all know how those go: if you’re not where you’re supposed to be on Sunday mornings (cough, church) you’re definitely where you want to be (baseball/soccer/football field or well, a diner….) so THAT never works out either.

I suppose I could try sleeping a few hours as soon as I got home from work, waking up in time for dinner but — seriously, who can do that? Oh wait….that would be a high school senior, who naps, then effortlessly drinks coffee at nine to stay up for three more hours of homework. Screwy, right?

I think the greatest irony to this whole dilemma is that …

by the time all the chaos of kids and chores and commitments winds down …

… the Middle Age Second Amendment is suddenly upon on: Thou Shalt Not Sleep Past 5am. Ever.

Can I get a collective “Craaaaaaaaap…..” from all my tired sistas out there?

Eyerollingmom spews snark daily:

http://www.facebook.com/eyerollingmom

http://www.twitter.com/eyerollingmom

http://www.tinadrakakis.com

Happily Hangin’ with the Dirty Boys

Calling All Moms: The Mother of all Celebrations

1 Reply

I’m breaking a bit of news here.

Fair warning: It’s the kind of news that I will likely sneak into countless conversations for the next twenty years or so (because, well, the statute of limitations has run out on my Reality TV fame and my kids and spouse and friends and family and strangers say I’m not allowed to talk about that anymore).

Lucky for me I get another chance to become the Norma Desmond of the Suburban Sunset Boulevard.

You say insufferable …

I say …

(cue in visual of a victorious Mary Katherine Gallagher)

SUPERSTAAAAAAAAAAR!

(hey now, if one is repeatedly called lame by their children on a daily basis, this is not bragging. Just wishful thinking.)

Honestly, we all know I have been (pitifully) regaling in my fifteen minutes of television notoriety for more than a (gulp) decade. It turns out I now have something different to go on and on (and on and on) about for the next ten years.

While not exactly Eyerollingmom: The Musical, a most humbling of honors has come my way.

One of the obvious pitfalls of being a writer/blogger is the unavoidable consequence of personal exposure. You put yourself out there with every written word and – if successful – you can incite genuine feelings in your readers.

If you’re me – and have made the conscious decision to divulge personal parenting truths AND at the same time raise literate children – you know at some point these kids might actually read some of your stuff one day.

And likely … they’ll be pissed.

Eventually, though, your kids might mature (might) and perhaps if you’re lucky, one day think you’re kinda sorta (a lil bit) cool. Fingers crossed, this will become one of those times.

A while back I wrote about my daughter, who was thirteen at the time. When the piece, “The Thinking Girl’s Thong,” was published, it duly enraged her once she caught wind of it. Naturally since that time I’ve found countless and creative other ways of ruining her life so really, we’re good now.

Still, it was – and is – one of my favorite pieces of writing I’ve ever produced.

Here’s why she can’t be mad about it ever again: The essay has been selected to be a part of the “Listen to Your Mother” series of shows that have been staged throughout the country for the past few years. “LTYM” is coming to Boston for the first time later this spring and I have been invited to be one of the inaugural “performers” and read my adored ode to my favorite teen queen.

I will be joined by fourteen other inspirational writers shining a deserved spotlight on all that is good and real and true about the phenomenon of being moms. The good, the bad (the wine?) and the lessons needed to be shared.

So … if you are a friend …

Or a (blog) follower …

Or a (Reality TV) fan … (I kid, I kid)

I cordially invite you to “Listen to Your Mother, Boston,” a show devoted to “Giving Motherhood a Microphone,” on Saturday, April 26.

Get gussied up …

and grab your guy …

or grab a girlfriend (or seven) …

or better still (if you are so, so damn lucky) grab your mom …

And come commemorate Mother’s Day the way it should be: with moms, praising moms, celebrating moms. Truth: Nobody rocks the way we do.

At the very least, check out the event (in 32 cities!) and raise a glass to tales of motherhood, warts and all:

http://listentoyourmothershow.com/boston/

(…and, a promise: if I do not faint on stage, I will be graciously accepting celebratory beverages after the show — at which time you may absolutely hand down a cease and desist order of when I must stop talking about this)

Spread this awesome news, share my Facebook page and treat yourself to a mighty mom time!

www.facebook.com/eyerollingmom www.tinadrakakis.com www.twitter.com/eyerollingmom

WooooooooHooooooooo!!!!!!!!

Do(uche) We Really Need to Discuss This Now?

1 Reply

All I remember is that it started with sperm. There I was, frying up some egg sandwiches and before I knew what was happening, there were giggles and roars and it dawned on me that the boys were using the word sperm in their banter. Third and fifth grade. Terrific. The thing is, I probably should’ve seen it coming – just last week one came in to rat on the other that he’d just been accused of having a mangina (you know, instead of a manhood).

Joyous.

I took a breath. I can do this, I thought. I’ve done it before. A couple of years ago while driving around with my then-fifteen-year-old he referred to someone as a douche bag. (Flash-forward to today and this word has appallingly become part of the teenage vernacular, used in movies and television and sooooo not a big deal. But back then it was merely on the horizon and I was aiming to halt it.) In the best smart-ass-y voice I could muster, I asked,

“Hey, do you even know what a douche bag is?”

“No.” was his shrugged response.

“Well,” I started cheerfully, “it’s actually a bag of cleaning fluid a woman squishes up into her vagina to clean it out.” Cue in wide grin. “Cool, huh?”

He would’ve jumped out the car window had he not been temporarily struck by mortification paralysis. But I think it went well: I never heard the word come out of his mouth again.

So apparently here was my déjà vu. I had to dish out some more blunt, in-your-face reality but I was ready. I was the master. This was going to be cake. Plus, as an added bonus, I had BOTH of them right there – I wasn’t going to have to go through this twice. I looked at the two of them and began.

What I said was, “Do you even know what sperm is?”

What they heard was, “Release the Kraken!”

I spent the next twenty minutes fielding their questions…. and then extinguishing their subsequent fits of laughter at my responses. When they weren’t falling off the counter stools in hysterics they were squealing at situations and scenarios only little boy brains conjure up – mostly imagery involving hot dogs.

Good God. All this and an explanation of porn before ten in the morning.

I did my best, answered truthfully and stressed the seriousness of taking all private matters well, seriously. It’s a tough paradigm shift: Kids are exposed to so much junk in such comedic ways it’s no wonder they think every sexual scenario is out of a “Superbad” movie.

Chivalry may be dead but now modesty is on a respirator. Good times for kids.

So it was a morning for the books. And — reward for Mom getting through it — an evening for Bud Light.

For the record, the discussion didn’t end at the kitchen counter. My husband found a reason to grab my 10-year-old for a Sunday car ride and got through a much needed follow-up-father-son discussion without the added distraction of a younger brother (or – cringe — food references).

And alas, before the weekend came to a close, that crazy karma came sniffing around again.

“Mom, I have a question…..” My son’s voice trailed off when he noticed his brother within hearing distance. I gently inquired if it was a question which might be best asked in private. “I don’t know… I just don’t understand a word.”

“It’s okay, just ask.”

“What does douche mean?”

Baaaaahhhhhh!

I straightened my shoulders and flipped my hair.

I got this.

Tina Drakakis blogs 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!)

You’re Number 1 (… and so are YOU, and YOU and …)

A Fleeting Fame

7 Replies

Disclaimer: My experience on a reality television show, while seemingly a lifetime ago, still makes for a good story. Since there are no surly teenagers nearby me to screech, “Nooooooo….not again, Mom!” I’m going to share it Yes, it was a loooong time ago, and yes, I believe Paige Davis may have fallen into a black hole since then, but it was at the height of popularity when our “Trading Spaces: $100 Grand!” two-hour special aired. And yes, it was (high-pitched-soprano-voice) AWESOME.

A long time ago in a career far, far away I got into a little skirmish with Geraldo. I was a publicist, he was, well, Geraldo, and the whole he-said/she-said thing landed on the front page of Daily Variety. There it was, in black and white: my name, my title and my quote. My quote! Hence, my very first brush with fame. While it was relatively small-scale (I mean seriously, how many people – especially those of us on the East coast – actually read Variety?), it was a professional feather in my cap that tickled me ridiculously and caused my boss to seethe. Naturally, I faxed the story to everyone I knew (this being the time when Geraldo was a media presence, of course there was no e-mail), and held onto it for years.

Fast-forward a dozen years, and with the help of a little reality-television show, I found myself in the throes of celebrity again, only this time in a brave new world. Plucked from obscurity, I was given a spotlight of national attention and enough local publicity to humble a politician. Still, it had never occurred to me that along with my fifteen minutes of fame came a little thing called, ummm, opinion. Have I mentioned that everybody’s got one – along with a computer? Had I known that I could evoke such passionate opinions from people I most certainly would have spent a lot less time worrying about the dungaree shorts I chose to wear for the filming of my television stint.

On the show’s website, throughout its wildly popular message boards were beautiful sentiments from virtual strangers: Raves (loved the show!). Cheers (loved you!). Kudos (congratulations!). But alas, like the envious boss who didn’t get acknowledgment, sprinkled throughout these well-wishes was an eye-opening array of not-so-happy campers. At first it was funny. (Okay, at first I didn’t spot my name). But after continued reading (equate it to picking at dried glue on your fingers – when does one actually stop?) it became mildly horrifying.

“Get off the computer,” my husband pleaded. I was addicted.

“Did you read what this guy wrote? That is so WRONG!” He’d simply shake his head. He knew I had crossed over.

According to one eagle-eyed viewer, I was apparently wealthy, therefore rendering me unworthy of the good fortune bestowed on my family. (This perception usually draws great fits of laughter from my family, close friends and the checkout clerk at the receiving end of my mountain of coupons each week.) One anonymous viewer called me arrogant. Arrogant? I won a big prize, had the ever-present camera catch my gratuitous tears, and nearly died from the excitement of the whole experience. Good God. Then there was a woman who ranted to all the other message-board posters that I made her want to barf. Barf? In fairness, I was completely aware that the humidity that plagued filming had turned my hair into a Farrah-esque flashback for most my age, but barf? That was uncalled for.

One of the show’s producers warned, “Oh, by the way, don’t go onto the message boards. Those people are crazy.” Yeah, we got that. Too late.

My love/hate relationship with fame has left me far more understanding of the price that is paid by bona-fide celebs, and not just the flash-in-the-pan variety like myself. It makes me realize how often I’ve become part of a heated discussion about one of the delightfully colorful cast of characters on the “Who Wants to Survive the Average Joe Millionaire” shows I tend to gravitate to on any given night. It is with heavy heart that I think of all the times I purchased a steamy tabloid solely to gobble up the dirt that poor Britney had to endure this past week. Now that I know how it feels to be utterly slammed, I am, of course, repentant.

“Were you on that show?” The hairstylist’s grin has me marked as she escorts my daughter to a chair. My nod is sheepish, but my alert mind is racing: Oh, the bad press that could come out of this! Is my hair combed? Is my holiday-induced weight gain obvious? How quickly can she call the newspaper to report a bad tip?

In the end, the five-dollar tip (for a ten dollar child’s haircut) is hidden in my fist as I go to thank her and depart.

“I loved it,” she giggles, and turns away.

For what it’s worth, I was a pretty good tipper before all this.