Tag Archives: love

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

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

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!)

Chapter 2: Sometimes Kids Suck. A lot.

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The idea for this book was derived a super long time ago, during one Christmas break when my then-teenaged daughter stopped talking to me (for a mountain of reasons that will be peppered throughout this momoir but really, it happened so often, does it matter?). She was grounded for the entire vacation and I was committed to making sure she didn’t bolt or sneak out so I stayed home, too, (you will soon see why I’ve crowned myself the Mother of all Martyrs). Misery may love company but cutting off a teenager from her friends is really quite satisfying. I had a lot of free time so I just started taking notes. Lots and lots of notes. (A side note: I take notes all the time because again, I am of a certain age and can only remember song lyrics of my youth. Remember when I wrote on cocktail napkins to remember details of my hilarious cruise?) Digressing again. Anyway …

Ironically, she’d been pestering me to write a book for a long time. Of course at that time her literary requirements consisted of summer love and vampires so I’m hoping she’s not too alarmed at what emerged from her urging. Had she known my first attempt would be (somewhat) at her expense she might’ve toned down her behavior a notch, but hey, a book’s a book.

The last of my four children is now a teenager so I’d like to think I’ve gotten a decent handle on this adolescent thing. You know – that out-of-the-blue explosion of angst and rage and emotion that’s been known to destroy a family dinner with a single grunt. One thing I’ve found is it is significantly easier dealing with irrational adolescent behavior when someone you know has already experienced it. For example, one time upon hearing my daughter threaten to turn me into the authorities I (naturally) called her bluff, scoffing, “Go ahead – make the call.”

In retelling that story (who wouldn’t?) I discovered that my friend Jerry had a way better response when it happened to him. He shouted back to his insolent teen, “Go ahead – make the call – and tell them to bring a body bag because they’ll be making a pick up!”

See? Older and wiser plus additional experience equals a far funnier story. I love Jerry.

It pays to surround yourself with people who have weathered earlier storms because someone else’s story will always top yours and you might realize we all come out of this alive.

Like I said, I’m no expert but I am somewhat experienced. I know I’ve got more melodrama headed my way but for the record I’ve already survived:

A kid sneaking out of the house after I’d gone to bed. Repeatedly.

A kid coming home high.

A kid lying, stealing, drinking, plagiarizing, and being an all-around dickhead.

A kid packing up a duffle bag and moving out six days before his high school graduation.

And about a gazillion other dizzying incidents that – God willing — may seem uproarious many, many years down the road.

That’s really my only goal here: to one day find each excruciating and hellish kid antics humorous in some small way. I think parenting is easier when you believe it might.

Haha, remember that year you got so angry you threw all your Christmas presents in the garbage?

Remember when you fried your laptop by spilling nail polish remover into it?

Hey, wasn’t that hilarious when you left all those wet towels on the floor and they permanently warped your floorboards?

Ohmygod how funny was that when you lost two cell phones in two months?

For sure, those are some things that were absolutely UNfunny when they were happening in real time. But man, oh man, I think we all need to believe they will be one day. I’m a big believer in camaraderie and an even bigger advocate in the healing power of laughter. I think the world’s a prettier place with daily laughs and nightcaps, and Tylenol PM and a sound machine (oh wait, nevermind, that’s my bedtime list) so I try to look on the brighter side of say, wanting to punch your kid in the face, and I always try to look for that clichéd light at the end of the tunnel. It’s always best if that light isn’t an oncoming freight-train of a kid’s hormonal fury but deep breathing helps. Sometimes.

Let’s be real: kids suck a lot of the time. They really do. They test your inner core and oftentimes leave you questioning where you went wrong. They make you wonder how their once-adoring eyes could ever hold such genuine resentment of you. They continuously criticize you, and complain about you, and keep so much of their real selves hidden that you’re convinced they were swapped in the hospital. But we stick to the plan because at some moment in a lifetime a hundred years ago we, too, loathed our lame parents the exact same way. I think deep down we all know that one day this moment in time will be amusing and our Good Kid is going to return and we might actually like each other again. It’ll happen. Right?

I’m here to attest that yes, it will.

Hopefully your good days outnumber your sucky ones because – especially if your children are still small — there will definitely be some doozies to come. Just remember that despite their declarations to the contrary, we are all good moms doing our best. If you’re like me, you’re making some major-ass mistakes (letting my 11-year-old be the Beer Pong ringer at his cousin’s grad party? Perhaps not my finest mom moment) but at least we’re learning as we go.

My missteps have continued as my kids have gotten older.

I scoop wet towels off various floors and toss them in the dryer every day without washing them. Every. Single. Day.

I also cut off my kids’ cell service when I couldn’t withstand one more minute of backtalk … and then forgot to pick them up because I hadn’t heard from them.

There was also a time (only once, I swear) when I texted my kid’s coach (perhaps … not … entirely … sober) to squawk about his playing time (a side note: if you’re going to try this, which I wholeheartedly do NOT recommend, first make sure the coach is one helluva good guy). Nevertheless, not an entirely proud moment. AT ALL.

Some of my best Mom Moments are a little unorthodox. For instance, I keep my cell phone charger in my underwear drawer and make sure my kids know it. Why? Because should it go missing – like all chargers do – I want my kids – especially my boys – to know they’d be fishing around through my panties in order to find it.

I wouldn’t order my daughter’s prom dress because she didn’t clean her room. And that was our deal – that it had to be Mom Clean first. But it never was. So guess what? She borrowed a dress and – gasp! – lived. If you can imagine, that scene was absolutely apocalyptic at the time (upcoming chapter entitled Got Girls? Get Wine) and (irony) I’m sure she doesn’t even remember that story now.

I’ve even changed the locks to make a rebellious teen know for damn sure that I was completely, stick-a-fork-in-me done with his nonsense.

I’m amassing a pretty extensive list but I don’t let it get me down. It pays to remember: The worst thing you will ever experience has always been weathered by someone else. I try to focus on the fleeting blips of positive. I’m pretty sure that for every really (really) lousy thing I do (or, in the case of changing sheets, don’t do), I make up for it in other ways. For instance, even though they tower over me now, I still kiss my kids a lot. And I tell them I love them all the time. I always have. The words are spoken so often that I now possess three sons who actually say it back to me even without a money transaction: in front of their friends, over their shoulders as they’re scooting out the door, and (yes, sir) sometimes even when they’re mad at me. And teens are mad a lot. One time, when it dawned on me that my moody and excessively ornery ‘tween was attempting to become an Ornery ‘Tween Bedroom Mole, I demanded impromptu hug practices and made him stand locked in an embrace with me until he smiled. We’re moms. We’ll do whatever it takes.

My home is pretty nasty at times (here comes my pat on the back from nobody-cares-about-your-undone-chores-Oprah; you know, spoken as if she’s one of us and might have some dust in her life) but I know I’m a pretty good mom regardless. There are still moments when I watch my kids from afar. Not in the “Get back here, a stranger’s going to steal you!” kind of way, but in a fascinated, still-can’t-believe-they’re-mine way.

Nowadays I don’t have to write much down since I can immediately promote their perfections and pitfalls in my blogs and the super honest billboard of Facebook (insert many laughing emojis) but one thing’s for sure: these babies grow up when we’re not even looking and life is too damn short to dwell on dirty sheets and sour demeanors.

Yes, oh yes, kids do suck. But when they’re in the back seat of a (cough, extremely cool) minivan giggling over the stupidest of stupid bad-gas jokes, they suck a little less and make you giggle, too. And every now and then when you’re ready to lock yourself in the bathroom for just five more minutes before your head explodes off your neck, they’ll do something unexpected and delightful to make you unlock that door.

When they were little, when they’d hear Barry White come out of the speakers they’d seek me out (“Mom, it’s your soooooooong!”) and spontaneously dance with me in our kitchen. I loved those moments. It’s all about the moments.

My kids may roll their eyes at my I-pod but hell to the yeah, they know all my songs.

Now that they’re older and (* makes the sign of the cross) out in public without me, every now and then I’ll get the mother of all compliments (no pun intended) when I least expect it, sometimes from complete strangers:

You’ve got great kids.

I’m thinking a terrible mom would never be able to pull that off.

So yeah, I’ll be keeping my phone charge in my underwear drawer, thankyouverymuch, because who knows, maybe I just may be onto something here.

# # # #

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/

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

One Year

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My mom died a year ago today.

I’ve written – briefly — about some of that journey but have mostly focused on all the beautiful friends that buoyed me afloat during that time. But to write about the experience as it affected my core? No. To quote a colleague who went through a similar ordeal just a few years before me, “Nope, can’t even go there yet. Cannot go there.” I understood it completely and still do. There are no words yet.

A lot can happen in a year’s time. Hell, a lot can happen in half a year’s time, as witnessed by the soul splintering timeline of my mom’s final six months.

To honor this subdued – yet utterly important and significant – anniversary I can reveal what I’ve learned about calendar years.

In one whole year you can witness your 17-year-old son become 18 by making a conscious and physical decision to leave behind the poor choices that saddened his mother so. You can watch him become a responsible man right before your very eyes and question why you ever doubted him.

In a year’s time you can watch your 16-year-old daughter become 17 by navigating relationships (relationships that seem to desperately define adolescence) with the grace and maturity of a woman far beyond her years. You can think that she couldn’t possibly become any more beautiful with each passing month. But you would be wrong.

In 365 days you would believe it is a devilish trick of the eye that has caused your 12-year-old’s shoe size to surpass that of his father as he reaches 13 years old. To share this fact with him, you could look up to tell him, for he now leans down to kiss you. This will make you amused. And melancholy.

In a calendar year you can observe your baby – for he will always be your baby – blossom from 10-years-old into an even more likable, adored, and sought-after pain in the butt 11-year-old (have I mentioned he’s the youngest?). You will realize that his personality is emblazoned from seeing – and hearing – more than his siblings did at this age. For this, you will continue to shield him from their merciless taunts, so that forever they will think you are favoring him.

Throughout the 52 weeks you can ascertain that life most definitely is NOT fair, nor is it supposed to be. My sister and I now shoulder the responsibility of caring for our 90-year-old step-father. That he has survived four strokes, emphysema, open heart surgery, a pig valve AND was 20 years senior to my mom will only bolster this concept.

In twelve months you can gain immeasurable wisdom about what is important in life. You can evaluate friendships with a keen eye: assess which ones are fulfilling, which are frivolous, and which are insufficient.

You can – and will – enjoy simpler things, and quiet moments,

You can – and will – laugh (please see above mentioned reference to 90-year-old man).

I used to pray. Now I just speak directly to my mom and I know she hears me. I am convinced that last month, before my little leaguer hit his very first home run of his life, it was my incessant and silent pleas to her that helped this ball over the fence. “Come-on-mom, come-on-mom, help-him-out-mom, come-on-mom, help-him-do-this mom …”

She did. And I think she’s done a lot for us this year. Jobs, health, happiness, you name it. I’ve named it: mom.

I miss her.

I miss just talking to her.

And she missed some pretty great things this year.

Of course she really didn’t miss them. We just missed her joyful reaction to them.

So as we’ve gotten through our calendar year of firsts — her birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, her anniversary, and – the worst — her 10 grandchildren’s birthdays, when their customary $25 arrived with only one signature on the card – we’ve always toasted her.

And we will today, too.

Because no one is laughing more than her right now at the three-ring circus she’s left behind (please see above reference to 90-year-old man). Without a doubt in my mind, she is laughing her ass off right now.

Love you, Mom.