Tag Archives: life

Spring Break at the Unhappiest Place on Earth

I will tell you: nothing opens your eyes faster than an unexpected hospital stay. Looking back, I was somewhat naïve. Did I really believe I would declare, welp, it’s been a full week – time to find out what this pesky stomach pain is all about and then not get whisked into an enforced staycation? I’m not the brightest band-aid in the box. I was admitted and rushed into a room faster than Augustus Gloop shot up that pipe from the chocolate river.

I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to all things medical. I’m fortunate, I know, because 1) this braggy mom can boast about a nurse son and 2) I really haven’t had the need to be knowledgeable. If you disregard the extra padding on my ass, I am, well, healthy. I was hardly the textbook candidate for the Diverticulitis diagnosis I received (a colon thing – and a great Google read btw – but a manageable disease all the same. Again, fortunate). In fact, when the discussion turned to post-discharge routines and what my new life might look like moving forward, it kinda went something like this:

Doc: You’re gonna have to start doing blahblahblah. Me: I already do that. Everyday.

Doc: Well you’re also gonna have to start blahblahblah. Me: I already do that. Everyday.

Doc: Ok, well then there’s the blahblahblah. Me: I already d… See? Frustrating.

Funny how we’re always searching for that scapegoat – which snotty kid in that classroom gave my kid this cold? – but there was no one to blame here. I didn’t do anything wrong and it just sort of happened. Life. It happens.

The staff tried to make me feel better, sharing stats (about one-third of all Americans will develop this condition by age 60) and anecdotes about certain doctors – marathon runners and absolute epitomes of good health who also had to live with this.

It’s a bummer that this is something I’ll now have on my radar from now on but there are far worse things and this is very, VERY minor in comparison. Given the horrifying hacking coughs, twilight moans and a humiliating lack of privacy around me, I quickly deduced I was significantly better off than the four other people in my shared room over those four days. Believe me, I am counting my blessings for sure.

But for someone who’s only ever been hospitalized to experience the joy of epidurals (at the indisputable happiest place on earth), this was rough.

Time tends to stand still when you’re enclosed by curtains for an extended period of time, without a window, without enough room for a comfortable chair to switch to, without anything but basic cable and daytime television, which, I might add, I was surprised to find is actually still on. (Hot take: watching Kelly Clarkson on mute, I came to the realization that I have never once been as excited talking to anyone as much as she is talking to everyone. Wait, AITA? I think I might be.)

Without access to windows or fresh air, I missed the emergence of spring here in New England, a string of glorious days I knew nothing about. Combined with sleep deprivation, zero food and a constant IV drip – not gonna lie – some pretty hefty depression settled in.

I felt like Dorothy, my refrain of I just want to go home becoming a mantra to anyone who’d listen. With every sympathetic explanation of why I couldn’t yet, I felt crashing waves behind my eyes, making me afraid to utter a syllable of response other than nodding my head, lest I start bawling and cause alarm, garnering a *new invitation to a *different ward. (Hot take: nurses are everything. EVERY thing. Wait, am I just biased? I think I might be. I certainly can’t be the only one who’s ever sank into a little Stockholm Syndrome with the level of adoration that grows within me towards these heroes.) But I digress.

When I got home it took a couple of days for all the IV meds and gases and exhaustion to exit my body so (lucky spouse o’mine!) my emotional state was all over the place. Fortunately, my melancholic mood and spontaneous weeping coincided perfectly with the release of Taylor’s tortured tracks. I spent the weekend in a fugue state of sad, sad songs, the Gilmore girls on a loop, and comfy clothing. Actually this was sublime and I’m thinking of doing it more often –well, minus the rabbit hole of an angst-filled icon’s ex-boyfriends, mystery lyrics and haunting black and white videos. (Hot take: I am now rightfully convinced I could live forever in the arms of a clean-faced, Post Malone. Wait, am I a Swiftie? I think I might be.)

The irony of this entire experience turned out to be my post-hospital treatment. I was ordered to adhere to a strict, two-week menu of food lacking fiber. No fruits, no vegetables, no salad, no kidding. Basically, I had to survive on the dietary demands of a four-year-old: white bread, white pasta, white potatoes, White Castle. It was a scorched earth disruption to the cosmic balance: all the foods I’ve been demonizing for so long were going to be the foods that healed me. Shut the front door.

It took me a second to fully understand the assignment. Really? I whispered, my memory flying to English muffins – remember those? I felt something wet slip from the corners of my lips. Alrighty then, I volunteer as Tribute.

It was legit; my recovery relied on rest (wink, wink), which actually meant bowel rest. There was to be very little action in that nether region of mine for the immediate future. I put an immediate moratorium on any flighty notion of a summer body and stocked up on the forbidden treasures that once took up residence in my kids’ lunchboxes: Ritz crackers, bananas and enough carbohydrates to keep that Atkins guy rolling in his grave for a while.

My experience (one star, would not recommend) was not my preferred use of PTO but it provided me with a few pretty profound takeaways.

Empathy, for one. When I found myself in the midst of midnight Volume Wars with the guy next to me (who’d fallen asleep with his TV speaker blaring in my direction), I wanted to crash through the curtain and decry his utter rudeness. I can’t stand Jimmy Fallon! I wanted to bellow. But I didn’t. The next day I overheard him arranging transportation for his pickup and heard the words halfway house. It dawned on me he hadn’t had one visitor the entire time and my heart broke a little. I’m glad I kept my mouth shut. You just never know what other people are going through.

Mortality is another. Traversing the other side of middle age is always a paradox: feeling young at heart while things are starting to break down. Anxiously waiting for the results of a CT scan, my only thoughts were of my first grandbaby on the way, the sons and daughters-in-law I’ve yet to meet in life, and all the things I haven’t done yet. Like a cold plunge it brought me to my current clarity, being …

Eat the bagel. On the first Sunday morning home, still woozy from potent take-home meds and queasy from a gnarly metallic taste in my mouth, I got up early (perks of a round-the-clock pill schedule) to find my husband gone. When he returned, he unpacked the newspaper and bagels from a local artisan bakeshop. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d enjoyed these thousand-calorie delicacies of perfection, nor could I recall when we’d last read the newspaper together. We used to have a Sunday subscription for shit’s sake. Why did we ever stop that, I wondered. It was blissful. And something I’ll take up again. Stop ignoring or putting off or devaluing your inner joys. Seriously, eat the bagel.

I now know more about the mighty colon and its needs and requirements than I ever thought I needed to know but hey, if that inches me any bit closer to a Trivia Night victory, I’m good with that. (Wait, am I a wellness expert? I think I might be.)

* * * *

(Friends! My Boston Globe Sunday Magazine feature is coming out soon! Follow my blog page or socials not to miss it! xoxo)

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!)

A Momoir, Chapter 13: Covid Edition (or rather, Still Not Skinny)

6 Replies

I started this pandemic the same way everyone else did. Well, obvs not everybody. I mean, I never ranted about wearing a face mask or crazily demanded my right to get a haircut but hey, ‘merica. Like many, I settled in for the long haul and tried to let go of the things that were entirely out of my control. I bid adieu to my colleagues, embraced the return of my college kids and (the worst) said sayonara to my shoes. I stayed-in-place like a good little girl scout and stopped caring about a lot (A. LOT.) of stuff.

Instead, I decided to use this quarantine time to reset. From the get-go I committed to focus on two things: gratitude and improvement. I wanted to see a difference in myself when this was all over and (well, have we met?) sure, make a splash and pop out of a cake at the end of it a better, greater version of Me. Skinnier, blonder, vegan? Who knows, but, dammit, I was going to be ready for my before-and-after close-up when this was behind me.

Well this long haul has turned into a Saturday night Easter vigil mass with four children in tow (ever been to one? Here, little nine-year-old, hold this lit candle for … awhile… GAH, only once friends, only once) – in other words, no end in sight — so here we are.

Since this pandemic is so very far from being over I decided to document a quick update.

I am currently in my fifth month of working from home and (plot twist) am neither blonde nor thin and if you know me (#bacon) will never, ever be vegan.

But I think I am better.

For starters, I haven’t faltered from feeling grateful. I’ve been grateful since Day One, if solely for bypassing that Nightmare that was Homeschool. Holymotherofgod did I dodge a bullet there. Not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought about the remarkable teachers and parents forced to reinvent the education system as we know it and whispered thanks daily for escaping that terrifying ordeal. God bless you all who did the homeschooling thing.

I was grateful for my job, my family’s health, my abundance of leggings (thanks, Steph) and my secret love of being a homebody. Sheesh, I could’ve written that viral piece of Gen X/1980s kids thriving in the seclusion of a pandemic. Stay at home? Keep yourself entertained? All the time? Joke’s on you, life: been there, crushed that. I was all in. Our nightly family dinners returned. My kids were, well, around more. Life became simpler.

Gratitude was a breeze.

So I got busy improving.

I stopped bothering with make-up and started reading — more books than I’d read in the past five years.

I stopped cutting my bangs (sorry, Marie Osmond, you’re left to carry the torch for our 50+ cohort) and started wearing Birkenstocks (I know, right? Ladies, lock up your husbands).

I stopped mindlessly checking my phone and started doing more crossword puzzles (but yes, fkkk those Friday ones. I threw the damn book away when those were all that was left and switched to another).

I stopped driving (once a week only, for groceries) and started walking 10,000 steps a day. When that became normal I shot for 15. Then 20 (again, still not any thinner so wtf but *sighs* we don’t have time to unpack that).

As the world’s pandemic fears morphed into a global awakening to racist injustice I committed to becoming more educated and turned to the people I admire most in the world for guidance: my kids.

I began listening to what they were listening to. Started reading what they were reading. Started watching what they watched (not entirely true. I will never watch that Avatar cartoon no matter how good it may be).

The podcasts getting me through my monotonous daily paces turned political, and I switched from true crime to Trevor Noah. And Pod Save America. And the NYT’s The Daily.

On television the void following my obsessive Outlander binge (oy! 5 seasons start to finish! Droughtlander here I am!), suddenly filled with Netflix documentaries. Stunned to my core by the appalling injustice of 13^th^, I was equally stirred by the peace depicted in Woodstock. The parallel themes of countercultures triggering dramatic change are an eerie nod to our present day cultural discord.

I wandered from the once-fluffy, now-fanatical Facebook and found my way back to Twitter and Instagram, where I started following educated and interesting people that have opened my eyes enormously. (No offense Facebook but you have become the Vortex of Aging Negativity and while you were fun for a while and I do still enjoy seeing the lives of my real (not faux) friends … let’s say there’s a reason the young people never really climbed aboard.

When the shocking behaviors of the country’s racist, caught-on-camera Karens started turning my stomach, I became obsessed with the Internet Detectives, the online superheroes who deftly and immediately expose each atrocious offender by publicly posting their names, addresses, license plates…. (I fanatically love this and cannot lie).

So sure, I’ve been ballin’ but my personal eat-pray-love renaissance hasn’t been all meditative serenity and yoga poses. Please. Far from it. With a son working as an EMT, there’s been a steady stream of mom-worry. I miss him. Also, we were hardly immune to the economic pitfalls brought on by Covid and still find ourselves running in place trying to grapple with financial stress and uncertainty.

Our home, put up for sale shortly before the lockdowns commenced, still sits on the market. While we once dreamed of downsizing, our new normal has flipped the switch on that idea; the oversized house we felt lost in not so long ago is now filled with people on computers all day long. We’ve found ourselves in a perpetual state of pause.

Employment was lost. Worse, it was lost a few months after the quarantines took effect, which means not only were we thrust into an already overloaded, log-jammed system that is excruciatingly flawed but (wait! there’s more!) the “bonus” pandemic money is now used up so ….cool, right? My business-owner friend couldn’t get her teenage employees to return to work because they were making a killing on unemployment. I’m super glad all the kids are making more money than they’ve ever seen in their short lives because fun fact: we haven’t seen a dime yet. If I did have bangs they’d probably be silver sooo….

Truth, it really (REALLY) sucks but even still, I remain grateful.

We flew our daughter back for a couple of weeks to work from our home (hey, come join us so you, too can complain about the internet!) and we hunkered down some more as an even bigger family.

We’ve been drinking wine, playing games, listening to Hamilton, watching John Mulaney stand-up and just being.

Just being a family.

And it’s been real nice.

What will you remember most about when the world changed?

We remember where we watched the OJ chase.

We recall exactly where we were when the towers fell.

And we’ll all know precisely who we focused on when Covid came to town. The President? Governor? Fauchi? Kimmel?

I was watching my kids.

During this ultimate gift of time I’d be a fool not to.

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/

Chapter 7: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/12/01/a-momoir-chapter-7-hello-happiness-are-you-out-there-hello-hello/

Chapter 8: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2019/06/14/a-momoir-chapter-7-high-school-graduation-my-big-fat-so-what/

Chapter 9: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2019/08/12/a-momoir-chapter-9-parenting-horrific-behavior-would-you-know-could-you/

Chapter 10: Click here: A Momoir, Chapter 10: Coming Clean: The Art of Mastering Uncomfortable Conversations

Chapter 11: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/02/22/a-momoir-chapter-11-how-many-back-in-my-days-until-you-officially-morph-into-your-mom/

Chapter 12: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/03/17/a-momoir-chapter-12-when-a-teen-up-leaves/

A Momoir, Chapter 12: When a Teen Up & Leaves

9 Replies

Last night I shared a glass of wine with the other woman. We sat across from each other, not quite knowing how to proceed, not quite certain who should go first, not quite adept at morphing a previously computer-screen-correspondence into a face-to-face conversation.

I could see why the love of my life was drawn to her. We were eerily similar. I’d gathered that from our emails. We sounded alike…on cyber chat. We reasoned alike. We held the same values and morals. Yes, morals.

This was no adulteress. Oh no, not at all. This was the woman – the mother – whose home my teenaged son had run away to.

He called it moving out. But conventional wisdom would argue that throwing some clothes in a duffel bag and heading out the door without an inkling of what’s happening the next day is no such thing. He had run away.

He had had it with our outrageous rules, our absurd expectations and our irrational belief that teens should be responsible and respectful on their journey to adulthood. So — without angry fanfare or slamming doors — my oldest child left our home six days before his high school graduation.

And now, on the eve of his one-month anniversary date (breathe) of life on an air mattress, his preferred mother and I sat in my home and shared some shrugs. And Pinot.

The situation, as an understatement, was hard. Devastating, in fact. It was the ultimate in rejection for a mother: a child that doesn’t want her.

And I didn’t pretend to understand it.

I didn’t understand it because it didn’t follow the script of a Lifetime original movie. There weren’t any “I hate you’’s or abuse or betrayal or Meredith Baxter Birneys. We’d been navigating the typical insanity that comes with adolescence and (insert back pat here), actually thought we were doing damn good so far. There were boundaries and consequences and forgiveness and laughter and acne. Nothing too strict, nothing too lenient. Having survived our own teenage years in the ‘80s of New York, gawd, if anyone knew about pushing the limits of youth, it was us. Fully aware of setting standards and precedents for the three kids that followed behind, my husband and I rolled with the teen madness.

Never had we imagined our rolling would come to a screeching halt.

At first we waited. He’ll be back, we reasoned. We hadn’t allowed him to take his car – surely he’d have to get back and forth to work. But no. He relied on his friends and – we’ll be dammed – they came through. So far, for an entire month. Well alrighty then. Interesting bunch, those teenagers.

The other mother contacted me immediately.

She lived a few blocks away. I explained to her my son did not get kicked out of our home, that this was all his own doing. She has two teenaged sons herself. She understood. She said she’d keep me posted on events as they occurred and thus our cordial relationship began, allowing me to become privy to more details of my son’s life than I’d even known when he was in my own home.

As far as shiteous situations go, I had stumbled into a remarkably awesome one. This other mother was sharp. Gave him an early curfew and chores and expectations. Boundaries. Consequences. Hmmm. Weirdly familiar, right?

She admitted she couldn’t come up with a logical excuse for – after four weeks – throwing him out. He was the consummate house guest: polite, obedient and respectful. In truth, she really, really liked him.

Yeah. We get that. We do, too.

She talked to him daily about the value of reconnecting with his family and told him she just couldn’t understand why he wanted to go through this without them.

Yeah. Same here.

Still, we put a positive spin on things for the sake of our other kids and silently pray that he comes to his senses and (cue in slap from Cher), snaps out of it.

I haven’t sat idly by, though, hand-wringing and despondent. With the situation seemingly out of my control I did what any other mother in my position would do: hauled my ass into therapy.

After a full debriefing her assessment was unsurprising: I was a reasonable person trying to reason with an unreasonable adolescent. She said that since my son was not relying on me for anything the situation was most definitely out of my control and I should let it go.

Let it go.

Let it go?

Let go of a child? (He is a high school graduate, she reminded. On paper, an adult.)

But…..but….but…..

But nothing.

I plunked down a few co-payments for a few weeks but eventually started to space out my visits. She was wonderful but hearing a therapist tell you something you already know is not exactly cost effective. My girlfriends do it for free.

So there is no happy ending to this cautionary tale, unless one looks at the (okay, almost amazing) relationship I’ve made with the other mother. We talked for hours – and not just about my son. It was obvious: having met under different circumstances, we’d likely be good friends.

She is giving him a safe environment to straighten out his head and I am giving him the freedom to figure it out.

I am without explanation as to why my son is attempting to assert his maturity in the most immature way imaginable. And it is unfathomable to me why he needs to go through this – or anything for that matter – without his family around him. And it is crushing. I won’t lie: it is the most crushing and hurtful and indescribable pain I have ever felt as a mother.

But he is a good kid and we are good parents.

I guess I know deep down he’ll be back one day.

I just wish it had been yesterday.

* * * Update * * *

Somewhere in between the time this author had the courage to write this …

and print this …

her seventeen-year-old returned home.

It was a long 47 days.

Ironically – it was also just as long (if not shorter) as this author’s own silent treatment to her own mother…

when SHE was seventeen years old.

Exhale.

* * * (Updated) Update * * *

(especially for those moms who may be experiencing this now)

This author’s son is now a young adult. He is educated, employed, happy and independent. He and his mom often share a laugh about the time he was a knucklehead.

Just. Hang. In. There.

xoxo

The Holy Grail of Happiness (or The Best Thing About (Maybe) Moving)

2 Replies

My husband & I decided to put our house on the market.

We don’t have to sell it but there was a time not too long ago that we almost did. Our beloved perfect home came with a hefty price tag all those years ago and frankly, the mortgage is a big nut each month. Always has been. When my husband lost his job for a bit of time a couple of years ago, we watched in trepidation as that nut grew into an entire tree, leaning and inching closer to our heads and blocking out the sun with every week of a missing paycheck. Going through financial duress while your kids are all going through college is not for the weak, trust me.

Things eventually turned around but that murky fear of what if they don’t really never has been forgotten. It’s always simmering, bubbling beneath even the happiest of times. So, while we’re in a stable place right now we decided to test the real estate waters and see if anyone else thinks this place is the bomb, too. Besides, who doesn’t dream about downsizing?

We’ll soon see how that goes but that really isn’t my point in divulging this news. Hell no. Instead I am here to publicly proclaim that, because of this experience, I have discovered the Holy Grail of Happiness. Are you ready? Have you gathered ‘round closer? Got your readers on?

I implore you to heed my next four words:

Throw. Out. Your. Shit.

I’m not even kidding; the results will astound you.

When we decided to unload our adored albatross we set up a five-month plan for ourselves:

Month 1: Purge.

We scheduled Goodwill pickups every month and got to work decluttering. Heavenly gods of garbage, we had no idea how bad it was (truth: one never does). We emptied out cabinets that were filled with glassware from our 1990 engagement party, plastic cups from every concert venue on the eastern seaboard and beer cozies from every pub giveaway ever grabbed (my gawd, there’s been a lot of beer in our lives and apparently it’s very important to keep it chilled at all times). We gathered all the rarely used kitchen gadgets and duplicate cookware (sorry, five friends who once left behind a long-forgotten Pyrex pie plate, all have found another home) and threw them in the pile, too. Banished were the bridal shower bedsheets and boxed up were the dusty dorm duvets. It was a start.

Month 2: (Purge and) Patch.

We kept purging (sayonara, stacks of children’s books and outdated leather trench coats) but we also started repairing all the yuck. You know yuck. Yuck is all the nasty-ass things around your home that have become part of the scenery you’ve been ignoring for years. We fixed the crack in in the ceiling we’ve stared at for more than a decade. We patched up walls where little elbows had crashed through the years and smoothed plaster where ninja noggins had bounced. We cleaned up the scuffs where tiny karate kicks had landed and continued to shell out piles of money to fix things no one would ever notice. No lie, this sucked. Like fixing your muffler.

Month 3: (Purge and Patch and) Paint.

Yes, of course we kept purging. It became a Marie Kondo challenge of epic proportions, getting rid of cheerleading trophies and participation ribbons for any spelling bee, geography bee and instructional swim class my kids ever experienced. Seriously, it was absolutely ridiculous. (You too, right? WHYYYYYY???) But now it was time to spruce things up. We repainted the tired walls of handprints going up each staircase and touched up the bannisters to their original regal state. We spiffed up the porch, the doors, the treads and the trim. My husband then tossed together every forgotten partial gallon of paint that had been neglected in the basement and created a new color. He rolled it onto the basement floor and gave it a crisp, clean facade. My friend/realtor was impressed (a clean and organized basement tells potential buyers you take care of your things—who knew?) but my husband was merely on a mission to get those paint cans gone.

Month 4: (Purge and Patch and Paint and) Pack.

HELL YESSSSS we kept purging. Why did I save every single report card from every single semester for every single kid? Because we all do, that’s why. While not as bad as some of my friends (I did not, like one, save baby teeth #gag), I duly saved everything else like most moms. I carefully sorted through a filing cabinet of homemade Mother’s Day cards, second grade artwork, pediatrician growth forms, prom mementos and a plethora of keepsakes my now-adult children wouldn’t care to look at twice. No joke: it was incredibly hard tossing away all those sentiments of time flown but most of it was silly, even by mom standards. We packed our most-cherished memories (no teeth) into meticulously labeled rubber totes and stacked them neatly in the basement (you know, on the nice painted floor).

Month 5: (Purge and Patch and Paint and Pack and) Prepare.

When all that was done (ahead of schedule – it really is amazing how addicted you become to Throwing. Shit. Out.) we started staging the house. In simpler terms this means eradicating all evidence that you ever actually lived there. Spoiler alert: this was the toughest part. Amazing and happy framed photos of my whole family adorn walls in every room of our home. Even the bathroom. To remove each one and carefully encase it in bubble wrap, not knowing when — or where — it would come back out, was torture. And it screamed of finality. Wait. Are we really doing this? Are we sure? Really?

Man, I hated that.

So now we wait. We have no idea where we’ll go or what we’ll do if it does sell but I will say, the whole endeavor has given my better half & me a lot of opportunity to chat … and muse … and dream … and ponder what our next life adventure will be. We’re in the second act of our sitcom life and it’s not such a bad thing having another common interest after 30-plus years together. We spend weekends creeping at Open Houses and put homes on our Please Wait for Us List … only to dutifully cross them out when they get snatched up and move to our Ones That Got Away List.

It’s all good.

Even better, should others somehow not find our organized basement so appealing, we’ve already committed to a Plan B: unpacking some bubble wrap and staying put for a little while longer in our spit-shined, shit-free home. With this view. Definitely not so bad.

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 10: Coming Clean: The Art of Mastering Uncomfortable Conversations

12 Replies

My daughter isn’t a complainer.

Nope, mama’s lil millennial is wearing her big girl panties, tackling life’s bumps and bruises all on her own, thousands of miles away and (*beams) I marvel at her self-possession quite often. So naturally it was with marked amusement that while chatting over the long-distance lines she began complaining about her roommates and their (wait for it) inability to (are you sitting down?) clean up after themselves. I know, right? (*pours tea, gets comfortable) Let’s go!

Since I was unable to storm her castle and shake my finger at those inconsiderate co-habitants I merely listened (and covered my mouthpiece to mask any sounds of enjoyment — a bonus: she couldn’t see my eyes trail upward while mouthing “Thank you” to the heavens either). For sure, my exasperation with the Teenage Girl Messy Room of Stuff has been well documented throughout the years: a quick scroll of my gallery could easily display our epic Battle of Adolescence. I knew it was the wrong takeaway from her frustration but this was a karma-tastic moment, and I was here for it.

I allowed her the time to vent. And plan. And vent some more. And she promised to call back when she figured it out.

In the end she did what she always does and got through her dilemma in a smart, shrewd manner. She did collectively address the guilty squad but only after first bolstering her argument by cleaning up the place to a spit-shine level, then tossing the ~~baton~~ mop and tapping out. Sort of a Tag, You’re It! kind of way.

As I listened to her it brought me back to my own uncomfortable roommate intervention when I was about her age. My household foursome would typically divide and conquer our food shopping each week and attack the thankless task in duos: one week my bedroom-mate and I went, the next, the other two would go.

My cohort and I — fiercely frugal, coupon clipping and sale item sniffing — prided ourselves on packing the cupboards and divvying up the reasonable bill four ways. Conversely, when the other pair returned on their bi-weekly excursions, it always seemed we were shelling out similar amounts of money … yet constantly running out of food (and Tab) by Wednesdays. We started paying closer attention and it kept happening.

I cannot lie: it took some gumption and a fair amount of seething behind closed doors before ultimately getting to the showdown.

Umm, can we see the receipt? we finally asked.

Umm, sure? was their confused, kinda pissed reply.

And there it was, in black and white and more than disturbing. It was stupefying, actually. Worse than the lack of sale items purchased was the collection of oh-my-God-why-would-you-ever-go-to-a-supermarket-for mascara and other health and beauty products that had evidently found a home right in their bedroom.

Umm, paging the awkward police.

Indeed, it erupted into an expected are you freaking me kidding me discussion but in the end, it actually turned out okay. There was no duplicitous or malicious motive. Really. Not even a little. The not-quite-embezzling twosome were (no disrespect here) just a couple of clueless airheads, with zero sense of wrongdoing and had assumed we’d been doing the same all along (because, again, clueless). To them it was no big deal and they wouldn’t have cared if we had in fact, been stockpiling our Revlon Frosted Brownie. (Side note: clueless airheads go on to become attorneys and therapists so kids, stay in school).

Anyway it all worked out, the air got cleared and we lived happily ever after (until the cops raided our apartment but that’s a story for another day). My point: no friendships were harmed in the making of this cautionary tale of coming clean. The same happened for my daughter’s band of happy housemates.

Still, parental pride being what it is, I’m glad my big gal donning her big-girl panties did her thing and found her gumption, too. It’s not easy bringing up uncomfortable topics with people you like (and have the opportunity to leave your bathroom a bio hazard). But it was nice to be her sounding board and witness her maturity and thoughtfulness in bloom.

It’s even better knowing that big kids still need their moms every now and then, even if just to vent or run things by them (and their dads, too, but you know, for Venmo).

So excuse me while I go shake a finger at the inconsiderate co-habitants still squatting in my own house.

It hasn’t worked yet but you can’t blame a mom for trying, right?

(and to prove her prideful progression … imma just leave this here…)

# # #

Just One Page

1 Reply

boyz

I had a conversation with my son the other day. He was questioning his decisions made on his future path. He was feeling some self-doubt. Expressing a little fear and concern. Kinda having a little pity party on a blue day.

Now, I don’t recall ever talking to my own mom about such things. It’s not that there weren’t some benefits to those independent ‘80s (*she mulls, thinking about the Loverboy concert she’s attending that evening*) it was just different back then. Here was a Mom Moment for sure and I didn’t want to mess it up. After first basking in our moment of intimacy I gave him the best counsel I knew, albeit with simple words: small steps. One semester at a time. But, I appealed, with a serious commitment to being successful in those steps until you can course correct.

I reminded him that every action in life comes with a redo option. Not necessarily an eraser or backspace button but rather a recreate click. The key, I opined, is to try to succeed at whatever you’ve committed to and keep striving for excellence — even if you hate what you’re doing — until a next step becomes an opportunity. I advised him to stop looking at every choice made as the end-all and try looking at life in smaller chunks of time.

It seemed to soothe his uncertainties and our chat ended with a hug. Mom Moment Expert Level: Achieved.

I felt pretty good about appearing so wise and assured … until my inner cheerleader escaped from inside me and sat on my shoulder with her megaphone pointed at my ear tskking You are SO full of shit. Try practicing what you preach. Then she rolled her eyes because hello, she’s me after all.

Small steps? Little chunks? She was right. I am more than slightly full of shit.

I love to write and always want to keep creating but it’s not always easy. There’s the time factor and the TV-binge factor and the housework factor and the multitude–excuse factor and for the love of God, the stop-mocking-your-husband-and-kids factor and then boom, there’s the huge, obvious elephant in the room: I don’t write half as much as I used to. And that just sucks, for a number of reasons. The most important being, it’s my passion. Everyone knows when we don’t partake in our passions, we seem to wither on the vine.

I know I do. If I go for long periods of time without writing I sink deeper into a funk until the act, even the idea of putting thoughts into words becomes insurmountable.

This week just as my inner cheerleader was calling me out for being phony I received a short note from a columnist I’ve adored for decades. Out of the blue, she wrote to tell me she unearthed a piece I’d written forever ago and simply wanted to tell me how much she enjoyed it.

Naturally I yee-hawed all over social media about it (because GAWD, how freaking cool?) but it also sent me down the rabbit hole of clicking onto her website, rereading the treasure trove of articles I’ve loved throughout the years that made me want to be just like her.

I came across one where she talked about the struggle of writing and how sometimes you just have to start with one page at a time and call it a small victory.

Committing to succeed small steps at a time.

Imagine that?

Well, whaddaya know. We are soul sisters after all. And I just made it to the end of one whole page.

Y’all check back again soon, ya hear?

I may not have many words of wisdom but I’ll certainly have words.

Do yourself a favor and check out the inimitable Beverly Beckham. I really, truly adore her and want to be just like her when I grow up. https://www.beverlybeckham.com/

Today I start by doing what she suggested.

# # # #

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/

Chapter 7: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/12/01/a-momoir-chapter-7-hello-happiness-are-you-out-there-hello-hello/

Chapter 8: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2019/06/14/a-momoir-chapter-7-high-school-graduation-my-big-fat-so-what/

Chapter 9: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2019/08/12/a-momoir-chapter-9-parenting-horrific-behavior-would-you-know-could-you/

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

3 Replies

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/

A Momoir, Chapter 6: I’m Not Always Like You, Mom. But That’s Okay.

28 Replies

My kids always roll their eyes but they know better than to squint and call bullshttt when I tell my stories. They know the truth: that I am a living, breathing product of the (legendary) Unsupervised Generation. I drank in junior high school. I hitchhiked. I rode public transportation before friends taught me how to drive. I smoked. I cut class. I snuck in. I snuck out. I did unscrupulous things every chance I got.

My mother knew none of this.

I also did my homework without being told, got myself to school (and work and EVERYwhere else) without help and filled out college applications without so much as a sniff of curiosity from my mother. I likewise ate what was prepared, picked up after myself and made sure to disagree with her in my head or into my pillow rather than unleash a fate far worse than my imagination could ever muster.

Despite the lack of assistance (or Uber) it was not a hard life. If I’m being completely honest, it was fondly enjoyable even (you don’t say) without the internet. It seems my generation was adulting before there was even a trendy term for it and I don’t remember anyone ever complaining about it. There were fun times (drinking age = 18 = #seriously) and scary moments (drinking age = 18 = #seriously) and there was no shortage of regrets or mistakes or lessons learned.

Oddly enough, I grew into a mom who knows where her children are most of the time. Kind of a weird paradox, I know.

Every year around this time at the anniversary of her passing, my thoughts drift to my mom. She’s been gone several years now and while there are moments when it feels like cliched yesterday, there are other times when it feels like I’ve been flailing through motherhood lost and adrift without her for longer than I can remember. I often think about how similar we are (apologies to my better half for the insufferable German stubbornness) but more telling is how different we became as moms.

I imagine most people try to improve upon their own histories. I know I do.

My earliest memory of telling my mother I loved her was from a pay phone in the hallway of my freshmen dormitory. As I grew older it bothered me more and more that it might have been the first time I ever said those words aloud. It affected me so profoundly those words became my personal pillar of parenting. I’ve raised four kids who have been hearing it – and saying it — their entire lives: into their phones, over their shoulders and across my kitchen counter.

My mom was a woman of few words when I was a teenager. A divorced mother raising three kids alone wasn’t exactly the norm back in the early 80s. She had a lot going on and kept her business to herself (lord, she would loathe Facebook today). She didn’t banter with my friends (cannot lie, she was a wee bit feared), she didn’t know any of my friends’ parents and she was barely civil to my boyfriends (alright, looking back, perhaps she may have been on to something).

When I went through a high school breakup the only way she knew about it was when she heard Phil Collins’ “Throwing it All Away” on a six-day loop through my bedroom wall. I’ll never forget her coming into my doorway and warily whispering, “Please. Play another song.” That was it. No sentimental mother-daughter moment or long car ride for ice cream. Onward I went.

Conversely, I chat up my kids’ squads all the time (interesting aside: my mom never used hip terms like squad because she could’ve cared less about appearing hip. Again, why be hip when you can terrify?). My own home often bustles with kids and I can get a hold of every one of their parents with a single tap. Contrary as well, when any of my own litter experiences heartache I am at the ready. My eagle eye and alert ear can detect the slightest change in demeanor, attitude or (sigh) hygiene and my maternal senses hurl into overdrive. I am at once a bevy of constant communication and presence to my troubled teens. It appears I have become the nurturing contradiction of my own adolescence. This is entirely surprising to me because – again — I never felt slighted or deficient in my own adolescence. I can’t recall any friend ever confiding in her mom back then either. That’s what girlfriends had each other for.

My siblings and I would kid my mom mercilessly about her earlier Teflon exterior. She was a tough one for sure but man, oh man, did she mellow out as time went on. It might’ve been her second husband, who arrived just in time to steady her, lessened her load of financial worry and loved her endlessly. More likely it was the welcome stream of good fortune that befell her family the second half of her lifetime. After a difficult decade or so, my mom’s life blossomed and happiness settled in to reveal her softer, fiercely funny side that was clearly dormant in my own youth. She was able to witness her three kids all marry and create enjoyable lives for themselves. She was showered with ten – TEN! – grandchildren, the joy of which infused her every thought and attention (alas, cue in the dejected and forlorn look of abandonment from said second husband, forever delegated to the 11^th spot in her life).

I wish she was here to see them all now.

I especially long for her to see mine.

My oldest was a high school senior and putting us through the ringer at the time of her illness. Whisper as we tried to shield her from our own distress, she knew. She always knew. I would give anything for her to see how he turned things around to shine so brightly. She would be over the moon with pride at the amazing and impressive young man he’s become.

Long before she died my mother had already taught my daughter how to sew but her protégé had only just begun to display her innate talent. In the time she’s been gone my creative gal has gone on to teach herself how to knit, then crochet, then paint, then create jewelry, then, just recently, open an online store. Without question these two special ladies were kindred spirits of an enviable kind. I know the magnitude of her granddaughter’s natural gift would fill my mom to her absolute core and I so wish she could revel in it.

She would still get the biggest kick out of my second son, whose devilish grin as the tween she adored now radiates the stubbled face of a young man. He captures every nuance of my mom’s own unassuming and affable personality and she would be tickled at their spitfire similarity. Gawd, if she ever caught sight of him in his college dress blues she might never stop showing his picture around Long Island.

She’d probably favor my youngest the most, a mere little boy when she left us. There was never any harm helping out the baby, she believed, because from any vantage point all the others always seemed unfairly ahead of the pack (*writer shakes head, remembering her childhood). My littlest’s unrivaled charm would find her putty in the palm of his hand. If she could see him now she’d gush at his every accolade, triumph in his every touchdown and sneakily slip him a twenty whenever they were alone.

I get jealous of my fortunate friends who still have time with their moms. I really do. I hate that my kids won’t see their Nanny’s eyes glistening at their weddings. I hate that they don’t get to hear any more of her stories. They wouldn’t dare roll an eye at hers. I hate that she’s not here to teach them more.

But if I find myself on a lonely road, I know too well my friends will eventually find themselves on a difficult one. Aging parents leave battle scars endured only by the strongest of daughters. I hope my familiarity and understanding of this stage of adulting is a comfort to them, for I’ll be at the ready for all of them when they need me.

I miss my mom at some moment in every day.

As the years tick on without her I shall remain incredibly bemused at our similarities (sarcasm, anyone?) and increasingly content with our differences (ummmm, mea culpa, mom, for the bandwagon Facebook brags). Something tells me she would be nothing but overjoyed at the perfect metamorphosis of the Mom she raised.

(Finally, for what it’s worth, here’s my maternal postscript to my kids: Just because I did it doesn’t mean you can. Remember, spidey senses. I catch EVERYthing.)

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!)

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

5 Replies

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 …..