Tag Archives: motherhood

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

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!)

Why I Now Go to a Doctor When Something’s Up. Every Shingle Time.

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man cold

I recently found out I had shingles. Not in the oh-man-I’ve-got-this-excruciating-and-painful-affliction but rather that I had – past tense – shingles. Now, if there’s anyone actually out there as medically inept as me who doesn’t know the difference between aspirin and acetaminophen (God help you, too), I must explain that this particular ailment is beyond awful: bouts of chronic internal pain followed days later by blistering, festering sores on the skin above the pain area. I know right, I cringed, too when I heard.

The realization of my condition came about rather absurdly. A friend and I found ourselves poking fun at our husbands (naturally) for being, well, men. You know, running off to doctors for every sniffle. Constantly popping every kind of pill, vitamin or placebo all in the name of keeping out of the obituaries. Annoyingly proclaiming WebMD diagnoses to anyone who’ll listen. Face it, we’ve all got one (mine swears by slathering Vicks around his neck and tying a handkerchief on top at the first sign of a cold. ALL my friends know this.) As part of our cheeky conversation, I innocently (maybe proudly) remarked that I’d been dealing with “this hip thing” for three weeks now and had barely mentioned it to my husband. She half-jokingly asked to see it. I lifted up my shirt to expose my back and her brow wrinkled uncomfortably. She asked a couple of questions (she manages a medical office so this is sort of her thing) and got quiet. “You need to get to a doctor” she said a bit too sternly for my liking. “You’ve got shingles.” Of course she then explained what that was (have I mentioned I’m a medical moron?).

A few hours later at the hospital a rather confused physician confirmed my friend’s earlier diagnosis. “You’ve had this for how long?” he asked. Shrug, followed by my barely audible response “Mmmmmmcoupla months…?”

“How did you manage the pain?” he wanted to know. I blinked. Was he kidding? Did he realize he was speaking to a woman? I’ve given birth four times. To date I’ve chosen to risk paralysis three of those four times by having a needle inserted into my spine to make THAT pain go away. Perhaps I should have explained my mother’s German lineage by admitting her maiden name was Schellhammer. Clearly I’ve been raised to manage pain by denouncing its existence. “I don’t know, I took some Advil,” I said lamely. He looked baffled.

“How did you treat the sores?” he inquired, remarking they were almost completely dried up, virtually healed. I felt like a child defending the Pythagorean Theorem to a teacher who suspected I’d cheated on the test. “Um…” I hesitated. “I thought it was poison ivy.” I skipped the admission of covering them up with band-aids bigger than my fists while on the beaches of Mexico recently. In my defense, at the time I was really holding onto the salt water will surely cure this confidence my German mother instilled in me.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The worst part (evidently) being over, my case was too far gone for drugs or remedies. I handed over my co-payment and took his recommendation with a smile: sure, I’d follow up with my regular doctor in a week or so. I found it interesting that he held an assumption I actually had a doctor who might recognize me from the waist up. But sure, I’ll go do that.

It has become eye-opening (in an irritating kind of way) to find that it would take a nasty cluster of pain and blisters to force me to get myself a real doctor but honestly, it’s been on my list for a long time. Along with the daily oatmeal, herbal foot cream on the nightstand, yoga classes and all those other things that I resolve to get to right away but never, ever seem to find the time to do.

Of course it’s amusing when everything works out in the end but this unspoken rule of priority that I adhere to is infuriating at the same time. If my husband can take such impeccable care of himself why do I continually put myself fifth in line? Why has he had more cholesterol tests in our marriage than I’ve had haircuts? And why do I – or women in general – or mothers – allow this nonsense?

When I went online and researched shingles I was (justifiably) stunned. It is, to be blunt, horrific. And though it is familiarly known as adult chicken pox, the suffering it brings bears little resemblance to the mildly uncomfortable children’s version of the virus. It is usually caused by stress or at times worse, a weak or deficient immune system but either way it was a blatant slap in the face that I’ve not been taking care of myself. I am — thankfully — angry enough to finally take some sort of demented stand for myself.

At the end of the day this is my own fault. And I know I am so far from alone on this. That my kids have never missed a dentist appointment should be a shining accomplishment, not an excuse. And that my house is clean and refrigerator coils are vacuumed is nothing but ridiculous when I’m only catching up to my annual mammograms every nineteen months, if I’m lucky.

My shingles were my wake up call to eradicate the skewed priority system of my life. I am done existing as a living, breathing Mom cliché and I hope other women join me. We may continue to wait five months for our next available Pap smear but dammit to hell, at the very least we’ll be sporting some truly fabulous haircuts when we get there.

A bonus: did you know you can actually refuse/bypass/politely say No thank you to stepping on the scale at the doctor’s office? Geeze, had I known I probably would’ve started going years ago.

* * * * * *

Read any good books lately? Start one here: A Collection Of Eyerolls: A Momoir

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/

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.

Alone Again (un)Naturally

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relax

My husband just doesn’t understand me, not even for a minute. My kids might be mildly amused by me (if they even noticed). But the reality is, I am filled with unabashed glee when left entirely alone for a few glorious days.

My better half would rather rake sunflower seeds than spend any significant amount of time by himself. This might stem from having a job which alternately finds him either in the isolation of a home office or the insufferable free-for-all of an airport. Not sure. But I love it and look forward to. When his annual Guys Ski Weekend rolls around – conveniently after the exhaustive holidays have passed – I become giddy. Leaving soon? I ask innocently over my coffee cup on the morning of departure, willing my words to sound curious (instead of eager).

It’s only a couple of days. 72 hours really. Actually, only 48 (of time awake) if I’m nit-picking. But most women know: it’s awesome.

In the weeks leading up to it you know I got busy. I made an impressive list of all the incredible things I was going to do to make my life an organized Garden of Eden. I also planned new exercise regimens, compiled lists of time-saving chore hacks and amassed healthy recipes to try. I researched new shows to binge and books to download and selected restaurants that I’ve been dying to try.

Welp. Almost immediately my noble intentions swerved sideways so I accomplished little to none of the aforementioned plans. Because again, it was only a handful of hours of leisure, amiright?

Still, I made the best of it. Here’s what went down:

Day One:

As soon as the last of the male-stench had exited my building I started off by cleaning it — which (I cannot be alone here) always makes me immeasurably happy. I blasted Donna Summer Radio. And Def Leppard. And Miranda (Ironic Moment of the weekend: just how much Black Shelton is played on this station). Anyway, within a few hours my home got just the way I like it. The best part: it actually stayed this way for a few days. This turned out to be serendipity: when unexpected downpours thwarted my high-heel-wearing Girls-Night-Out, my gleaming home became the venue of choice for an evening that’d been in the works with a great friend. No problem – there was nary a drop of pee on my toilets and I had a pot of meatballs simmering. We drank wine in yoga pants, shared a meal and caught up for hours. It was divine. And not once did any intruder barge in to open the refrigerator and peer inside for eight straight minutes.

ski 3

Day Two:

Alright, maybe I was moving a little slower today (*shakes head ruefully, mouths Pinot) but I couldn’t stay down for long. The crazy New England winter weather had flipped its fickle switch and brought an unexpected spring-like day. Off I went outside, work gloves and wheelbarrow in tow, to clean up all the downed trees from the wicked storms that had turned our property into a war zone. Now to be clear, this is not usually my gig. I’m actually a big fan of gender-separated workloads and live quite happily mopping floors while the men in my life mow the lawn and fix stuff. But I was looking for some bragging rights. I’m pretty sure nothing screams my wife is hot more than the image of her hauling away branches bigger than her own body. So I became one with my yard and had some fun with it, even stopping midway to post a pic when I came across a beer pong ball, hidden since a June party. Go ahead fellas, keep sending me those shots of your raised beers at Après happy hour. Mamma’s at home, gettin’ it done. #Iamwomanhearmeroar

ski lol

After that, I cleaned myself up and went out to do a little food shopping, my brain swirling with the memorized Instagram images of all the roasted Brussel sprouts, toasted quinoa and sweet potato chips I was going to make because I just knew it was all going to melt my pesky muffin top in the New Year. Turns out, by the time everything was unloaded and put away the sun was going down and death-defying drops in temperature mocked the earlier beach day. My morning workout of manual labor started to catch up with me and I was dragging. I declined an invitation to go out, threw on some sweatpants, grabbed a comfy blanket and my book and clicked on a cheezy movie. Okay, maybe not a woman roaring anymore but …. #STILLawesome

Day Three:

I awoke to find it was still frigid outside so naturally I figured The New (Exercising) Me would have to wait a little longer. I read the Sunday paper to the backdrop of Frank Sinatra Radio and a funny thing happened. Nobody rolled their eyes at my nostalgic tunes or came sniffing around asking about bacon. I putzed around doing laundry and cleaning out my closet before devoting the afternoon to peeling, cutting, roasting and portioning my newly acquired root vegetables for the week. (side note: The New (Healthy) Me had no idea how time consuming this was when I started. I think I’ve figured out why all those Facebook recipes are on fast-forward). I continued tidying up things around the house – you know, nothing major, just all those things we walk past every single day and ignore – stopping every now and then to get lost in a random photo album I’d come across. Not gonna lie, melancholy showed its morose face for bit. The grey day began to drag. I checked in with my oldest and made plans to see him during the week. Then I texted the skiers and told them since I hadn’t heard from them all weekend I was keeping busy posting awesome old pictures on social media. I wasn’t ……

lol ski

…. but their lol-responses delighted me.

When my husband called that night and coyly asked if they were missed, I responded truthfully: yes, they could come home in the morning. I was done. And getting kinda lonely.

It’s pretty wild how quickly a couple of days go by.

You hear that?

It’s the sound of silence.

It’s pretty awesome. You know, for a couple of days

Read any good books lately? Start one here: A Collection Of Eyerolls: A Momoir

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 3: Sorry, We’re Tied: ALL Kids Are Filthy

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Kids are filthy.

From a sweet baby’s very first up-to-his-earlobes explosive poop to a darling daughter’s bloody bathroom waste basket to a teen son’s crunchy socks next to his bed (let’s do this together, shall we: ewwww), our kids are an abundance of nasty from the get-go. The intensity of it simply grows as their size does.

Most parents usually evolve through these stages of mess and mayhem. I can’t speak for everyone but I know I am not alone in my transformation, having begun as the OCD Organizer of Playsets After Bedtime (because Luke Skywalker, you do NOT belong with the Riddler) to where I am presently: throwing up my hands in defeat and closing doors to the war zones I don’t want to see.

Oftentimes offspring go through transformations, too. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it happens but there’s an undetected moment in their lives when kids go from not bathing at all to taking forty minute showers. It may seem unexpected but at least for boys, it actually follows the natural progression of your hand lotion disappearing (again, in unison: ewwww).

I remember meeting someone for the first time and our cordial chatter revealed the ages of our children. I think at the time my oldest might’ve been thirteen but his were a bit older. At one point this dad rolled his eyes dramatically and quipped about paint peeling off the bathroom walls. I smiled politely and moved on because I had no idea what he was he was talking about. Before long, I did.

Ohhhh, now I get it …. THE STEAM. I’ve since had to repaint my bathroom.

I think we can all agree that every parent believes she has the world’s worst kid-and-hygiene story (I’ll take Toenail Clippings in the Kitchen for $500, Alex!). Arguably the most reviled aspect of parenting, it is a bona fide bummer. Every parent can relate to the appalling conditions of kids’ bathrooms because there’s really nothing like it. For years I commuted using NYC subways and those smelled better. If I’m being honest the sheer concept of a kids bathroom is not something I was privy to until a few years ago. I may be living like a filthy American these days (looking at you, separate potty room) but I actually grew up sharing a bathroom with four other people and raised my own family of six sharing one, too, for quite some time. Personal sinks are sweet luxuries indeed — until it dawns on you you’re the only one cleaning them. I may be fortunate enough now to have my own (ahem, master) bathroom but sadly it didn’t come with a moat — so keeping out the unwanted is an everyday struggle. Now that I’ve seen how the other half lives, I don’t want to share. I’ve never been a fan of the family bed and I am now even less enamored of a family bathroom. So yeah. Get the fkkk out, spawn, and take your hash-marked boxer briefs and clumps of drain-clogging hair with you (and while I’m at it, feel free to grab your dad on the way out). There aren’t enough adjectives for gross. At what age does a sanitary bathroom become important and why are there so many unanswered questions about it? How does so much toothpaste even get on mirrors? If not on the mirror, why must it remain in a goop in the sink until it becomes cement? Are the fifteen empty shampoo bottle for a science project? Do you really not see the pee hitting the floors/walls/heater ??? Gaack.

We love the stuffing outta them but our kids are disgusting.

Curdled baby vomit on our clothes (and the smell never comes out).

Poop, poop and more poop (and, in the case of boys, continuing FOREVER).

Bloodied knees, broken bones, cracked teeth, and the apex: pencil point lodged in a facial cheek for infinity.

September backpacks containing June lunches.

Service for six place settings under beds.

Yogurt spoons under couch cushions.

Insert your favorite find here: _______________________________________________

I’ve no doubt a friend could top you.

Childhood is dirty and grimy but we all signed up for that. Thanks to What to Expect When You’re Expecting (how in the world did our mothers ever do without it?) we all knew what we were getting into. What we didn’t see coming (because we expertly drowned out our own mothers) was the speed and monotony in which filth flies at us beyond diaper duty.

The good news is, there’s relief if you want it. You just have to want it bad enough and change your behavior – not theirs. We have to essentially, well, give up. Raise that white flag and sing that annoying song from Frozen. When I finally realized Barbies and Bratz dolls were living harmoniously despite which bin I strategically placed them in each evening, I gave that up. When I saw that every other ‘tween on the planet was wearing a similar stained hoodie at the bus stop every day in lieu of a winter coat, I gave that up, too. Eventually I also stopped stripping beds and taught my kids how to change their own linens. My kids spend ridiculous amounts of time cleaning their bodies – only to put on dirty clothes and sleep in smelly sheets and I am the only one bothered by this? Really? Who’s the crazy one here?

I totally get why it’s a struggle for some moms to give up. The older our babies get, the less they need us. Throw in a cell phone and kids can communicate within 160 characters and go a few days at a time without a complete sentence grunted in our direction. Letting go of the actions that keep us maternally connected is extremely hard. It’s in our DNA: we need to be needed and it’s sad to watch that slip away. What we don’t need is the constant thanklessness that comes with say, doing laundry: When that epiphany hits it’s like a Costco-sized tub of Tide falling on your foot.

Good grief, how many times was I going to throw a basket of clothes into a washing machine before realizing they were still neatly folded from the last time I’d cleaned them? Cue the veins bulging. I was doing daily laundry for five able-bodied beings who were keeping my grocery tab at triple digits each week. It’s no wonder I was perpetually irritable most of the time. I’m not sure what it took to hammer that last nail into my Whirlpool coffin but one day I just stopped. I was younger than junior high when I’d started doing my own laundry (you were, too) and here I was enabling my adolescents far beyond that. I was suddenly embarrassed by it. So I walked away from doing their laundry with nary a threat or a door slam and never looked back. What’s that sound, you ask? Freedom bells ringing.

That was definitely one of my Great Mom Moments to date but I haven’t reached Grand Master Level just yet. To be clear, there’s still a tsunami of mess in my home at any given time if I don’t keep up with the nagging but I’ve grown wiser as well as weary. I now dangle car keys until rooms are picked up and I’ve been known to make bacon and refuse to slide it over until trash cans are brought in, dogs are walked and the mystery smell is unearthed in the mudroom. When things are gettin’ done I guess the strategy doesn’t matter.

And their bathroom? Please. I still rarely go in there. Some days I just can’t do it. But they’re learning: now I won’t let their boy/girlfriends come over until they clean it. Ahhh, the enchanting effect of the adolescent significant other. I do believe I’ve come up with another chapter. Stay tuned!

* * * *

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!)

Kids, I Love You. Now Cut the Crap.

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A friend shot me a note the other day which read simply, “Can you please write a blog about boys pissing on the toilet seat? To which I immediately replied:

“No, but I can write one about boys pissing into cups and Gatorade bottles and leaving them in their bedrooms … and then hurling them out the window when their mom loses her shit over finding them.”

(My friends know: this is 100% truth and the reason my husband will not drink out of plastic cups anymore.)

Honestly. So many stories still untold. It’s like the Naked City – only there’s usually actual nakedness (because boys step over all the wet towels already on the floors).

There’s a reason why all these gems float around my head and never make it to the page. I’ve found myself in that interesting yet ironic state of Perpetually Pissed and Profoundly Proud Parenting: when my entire emotional state fluctuates between one extreme and the other.

Kids cause that.

I don’t know what to write about half the time because by the time I’m done revealing reasons of happiness or reflection I usually want to throat punch someone.

If you think about it, it’s a pretty remarkable paradox. And no matter the ages of my kids, and despite how many times I remind myself that much of what now happens in life is out of my hands, these kids still have complete control over which way that pendulum swings.

My 3^rd kid just graduated high school and of course, it was the momentous, magnificent whirlwind of ceremony it should have been. (Disclaimer: this coming from a mom who has repeatedly deemed graduating high school No Big Deal). But the Kid did alright. Acceptance into a damn good school, a couple of nice scholarships and a bona fide bang-up senior year chock full of awesome memories. My heart’s been full for seemingly months at a go and I will not lie, it’s been a fine, fine time for us.

Welp. My boast balloon burst as soon as I got the text message at work asking if I’d left him a template for the Thank You cards he was writing following his grad party. A template. Followed by his query, “How do I address an envelope?” Good God. Off to college he goes?

To quote a very agitated tween, I just can’t even.

Bringing up the adolescence rear in our household, my youngest, too, turned his sophomore year into an impressive array of academic and athletic accolades. Really, he’s the Mayor. So adored. So praised. But it is astounding that he hasn’t yet choked on the ridiculously short leash we have him on due to all the stupid choices he keeps making. He seems to keep forgetting he is our fourth child and we have seen this movie. And we know how it ends. Lather, rinse, repeat.

To quote another very agitated tween, SMH.

But wait — the Jeckyll and Hyde of emotions isn’t just limited to the confines of my home anymore either, for even chicks that have flown my coop (some states may refer to them as “adults”) are adept at keeping my angst ablaze.

Like … my oldest, off in his first apartment (yay!), carrying a full-time job AND full-time school course load (hooray!), excitedly bragging about booking flights for his first “grown-up vacation” (wow!) … which he planned … on the very weekend of his sister’s college graduation. Are you kidding me?

Or … my daughter (she of the above reference) … announcing upon said graduation (pride!) that to begin her first job (congrats!) she would be driving cross country (what?) … to Utah (ummmmmmm) … alone (whaaaaaat???) … and … not to worry .. because everything will be fine…

(End note: in the end, she did not. Only due to sheer logistics, not parental pleas. Naturally.)

Sigh. Remember when we thought baby colic and constipation were a thing?

A very wise friend (JACKIE!!!) once declared “Little kids, little problems.”

These aren’t problems, I know. Merely slices of life that keep that damn pendulum swinging.

Parents already know: life is pretty damn amazing (and hilarious and heartbreaking and unmatched) dodging that damn pendulum.

My wrinkles (and wine bloat and grey hair) notwithstanding, I know wouldn’t trade a day of it. I mean, if I’m being honest, come on, they are kinda funny.

# # #

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!)

Young Love: View From the Back Seat

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When I was in high school I remember doing whatever I could to get my boyfriend’s mother to like me. I tried everything. But despite my always cheerful and ever valiant attempts she always remained, I’ll say, cool towards me. When I finally reached the brink of my adolescent insecurities I unloaded on my beau with a frustrated, what the hell?

He just shrugged. “She likes you,” he offered lamely, “but she knows it’s not like we’re gonna get married or anything.”

Um, say what? You can imagine: at seventeen, that stung. She knew. Heck, deep down we both probably knew, too. But she put it out there and there it stayed. And I’ve never forgotten.

I can’t be certain, but maybe because of my early experience, I’ve grown into a mom lacking enthusiasm for adolescent romance. For me, it’s always been a great source of curiosity when anyone else did.

Like my sister, for instance. I’ve forever marveled at her unaffected exuberance of really, truly basking in teenage love. She’d fawn over her kids’ boyfriends and girlfriends, buy them super nice presents at Christmas, happily accept their friend requests and exude genuine excitement over anything about them. Every high school relationship was treated as The One and it was utterly fascinating to me. Consequently (and alas, one by one), every high school break-up consumed her with incredible sadness — for a really long time. It all seemed crazy to me.

I guess I never bought into the hype because well, adolescence is (pick one) silly, volatile, melodramatic and (most of all) fickle. Let’s be real. Is there a more ridiculous time in any life cycle? When my daughter was in middle school (before it was the norm for third graders to carry cell phones) a young boy called our house and left a very detailed message on our home answering machine asking her to go on a date to the movies. I listened to it, rolled my eyes towards the heavens, promptly deleted it and told my daughter about it – many, many years later at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Why? Because it made for a great family laugh and — like Carrie Bradshaw being broken up via Post-it note — there are some dating behaviors that are beyond reproach. Rest assured: no daughter of mine was ever going to the movies with any kid without a clue.

That was all well and good (and, okay, somewhat controllable) in middle school, but it seems before I could throw in another load of laundry – and despite my inclination to ignore them — I’ve acquired a slew of significant others in my life. And it’s become harder to remain, I’ll say, cool towards them.

My eldest son, a young adult so unsharing of information I couldn’t tell you his favorite color, suddenly started showing up with a stunning girlfriend. Turns out they’ve been together for months. She is well-spoken and personable and bright and — dayum! — pre-med. She possesses such exceptional attributes it is impossible not to enjoy her. She’s a darling. Dang.

My high school senior has been with his girlfriend for quite some time, too. As much as I tried to remain aloof and indifferent towards them, her ability to get him to do homework and come in before his curfew has broken down my tough demeanor. She is an absolute delight to be around and I completely adore them together so of course it worries me. Again, 17. Double dang.

My youngest, teetering on 16, might trouble me the most. He’s been spending his time with such a sweet and charming young lady I find myself lamenting, this – they — would be perfect …. in about ten years….

Good grief, what is happening here? Of late I’ve been wondering which is worse: that these kids’ impeccable choices are turning me soft, or that maybe my sister was onto something.

It’s a tough seat to sit in for sure. And because moms were once teenagers too, we know with assured wisdom that as much as young love blossoms with ferocity, it will also (more often than not) fade with some sadness. Being invested in our kids’ relationships carries weighty fallout when a happily ever after doesn’t happen.

My little girl, now an extraordinary and beautiful young woman, is experiencing her first real break-up and – I have to be honest – my whole family is feeling the strain of her sorrow. (Truth: her grace and reflection while deep within heartache far surpasses her mother’s 1980s coping method of Diet Coke and cigarettes. Geeze. I thank God those DNA strands didn’t swim too strongly.)

We liked him. We Sally-Field-really-REALLY liked him. They shared a lengthy time together and we were all a part of it in some small way. But it just wasn’t meant to be. So now we’re all sad.

And my heart is hurting having to watch her go through this tough time.

I knew I shouldn’t have gotten him that bathrobe for Christmas.

I should’ve known better than to think my sister was smarter than me.

Happiness Is Doing What Your Mama Says (even after she’s gone)

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My mom died five years ago today.

I’ve spent the past four anniversaries of her passing confounded by the shock and awe that goes into the passage of time. I wrote about it last year, and the year before that, and so on. I’ve always focused on my kids because – truly — nothing is a greater catalyst for maternal awareness than grief and loss. It halts us: little boys sprouting facial hair and muscled man-limbs in the blink of an eye, teenage girls blossoming into fascinating young women (with – eek! – boyfriends) and the dizzying commitments on calendar pages that keep us busier and busier (and busier…) with each passing year. If only we had a dollar for every friend to lament, “Where did the time go?” on a post or picture. It happens every day.

I think this year, though, I’m feeling different. I’m certainly still amazed by the quickness of time (and yes, I am still in disbelief that I can now legally grab a beer with 50% of my children). But I’m finding as time moves on, I am less paralyzed by the passage of it and more accepting of the presence – and present — of it. I like it. I really, really like knowing – and even not knowing – something’s coming ahead. This slight shift in my personal paradigm keeps me excited and hopeful for the future, even on the down days.

Graduations. Colleges. Engagements. Professions. A stubborn boy’s long hair FINALLY getting chopped … There is so much greatness going on at every turn of our lives, and so much promise, it’s almost unfair not to be happy. I have to be honest: if my mom ever caught wind that there was anything other than joy where her grandkids are concerned, she would be one pissed chick.

So while I miss her like crazy, I can’t often stay sad for more than a moment or two. That’s just not how she rolled.

I’ve no doubt part of my mind shift came with turning 50 this year.

50.

Holymutherfkkingsh*t, right? How the effing hell did that happen? I’m pretty sure I can still dig up my tee-shirt that boasts “We work less and party more, cuz we’re the class of ’84.” Seriously, this is something. A lot of reflection comes with that magic number. I remember planning my mom’s 50^th surprise party. We crammed all her friends into my tiny newlywed apartment and basically threw her a keg party. She didn’t drink beer but we did, and as far as entertaining, okay, we knew little else. It worked. She was elated – and equally annoyed: she had just become a grandmother and was none too happy that her little baby Jesus didn’t make it to her kegger. Still, she was surrounded by love. And was until the end.

On these anniversaries I think of the friends my mom left behind and I am so, so sad for them to be going on without her. I know profoundly the void they feel.

She taught me well. Like her, I’ve become adept at insulating myself with friends who care deeply for me, friends I would do anything for in return. Most are a phone call away. Others, a car ride. One, a plane ride taken on a moment’s notice.

Growing up, I used to read Erma Bombeck all the time. I loved the stuffing out of her. During winter break of my senior year of college I came across her column in the New York Daily News entitled “No Greater Friend Than a Best Friend.” I clipped it and held onto it for a couple of months and then mailed it in a birthday card to Kristi, my best friend since 5^th grade. There was rarely a time we were ever living in the same state together for very long. Kristi held onto it for almost a decade, then sent it back to me in a card for my 30^th birthday. I framed the yellow newsprint and sent it back her way when she turned 40.

Naturally it made its way back to me a few months ago.

It’ll hang on my wall for another ten years until, well, you get it.

How unfathomably fortunate that I have a 40-year friendship going strong?

How impossibly amazing for my mom to be the subject of such beautiful memories for so many?

How ridiculously wrong that my own children didn’t plan my 50^th festivities??? (I kid, I kid. I masterfully controlled every detail.)

I think about her every day but I honor her today.

You’re on so, so many minds today, Mom.

Cheers and love.

xoxo

Wait, Who You Calling Old?

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mom jeans

Not gonna lie: I’ve been known to be a little judgmental. (It’s really just one of the many book titles I’m laying claim to in the innards of my brain: “I’m Just Saying What You’re Really Thinking”) So it’s actually with great irony that I must report how very publicly I was personally judged this weekend.

It came from a twenty-something waitress as she collected menus following my party’s drink and app order. We asked about the live music scheduled for later in the evening.

She surveyed our table and suggested that we might want to leave before the band arrived.

Excuse me, what?

“Well….they’re a little……” her voice trailed off.

What, we pressed. Loud? Violent? (I’m a big music fan but I draw the line at some of the stab-your-grandmother music that’s out there) What?

“Ummm,” she shrugged, “I just don’t think you’re gonna like them.” She walked off.

Where’s Steve Martin when you need him: Again, excuuuuuse me?

Detecting a challenge, we scrapped our plans to move on to a different venue later on and instead got comfortable. We claimed a pool table and kept the rounds coming.

When the band eventually began they opened up with a pretty awesome Tom Petty song. (Cue the confused looks at our table. Huh?)

For the next three or so hours they played great covers of everything from AC/DC to Van Morrison . I lost track of how many times I lifted my beer to proudly declare “Ha, THIS is on my I-pod, too!” (it’s a Nano but, you know, whatever).

I kept thinking, that snotty waitress can kiss my Adele-sized ass.

Now, I’ll admit there might have been a few vibes that (maybe. perhaps. if you stretched) hinted we may not have been the hippest bunch.

Getting to the bar at 7:30 might’ve been the first red flag, I get that. Young people — like vampires — repel sunlight and bars before ten. I know, I know, been there done that. But I will boast that we were indeed asked to “kindly depart” after the bright fluorescent lights had been on for awhile at last call. Not a proud mother-of-four moment (and certainly not the first fluorescents we’ve ever seen) but hey, no one can deny our chutzpah. It happens (so does taking the next day in its entirety to recover).

Also, there was one of us whose six-foot frame took out a speaker (and maybe a couple of bystanders) with a very animated fall on the dance floor (NOT ME). Lacking the grace of Brian Boitano (funny, how these always seem to happen in slow-motion), okay, maybe that could’ve shined an aging spotlight on us. (No one got hurt. I think. Maybe just their roadie? I dunno…)

And (alright, alright) perhaps a mob of middle-agers hysterically fist-pumping on the dance floor was a bit telling.. Ah well. Three fingers up to make a W: What-ev-ah.

Maybe a final dead giveaway was how we interacted. One thing that definitely set us apart from the youngsters around us as how we sat as a group and talked and laughed. You know, TO EACH OTHER. At one point, a group of four girls nearby all tapped away on cell phones at the same time. Having fun, ladies?

We sure did.

Take THAT, kids.

Here’s an interesting end note. Our waitress was arguably the worst restaurant worker in the history of food service. Her lack of charm paled in comparison to her professional skills. We had to hunt her down throughout the night, usually finding her sitting with friends chatting (I know, right?) Yet we still tipped her well because we are a different generation that does the right thing. (Not to mention that collectively we could put a sitcom into syndication with all the eyerolling actions of our own young-adult-spawn). It makes us somewhat forgiving.

Yes. That would be us: forgiving, freakishly good dancing and not-quite-ready-for-early bird-food-specials fun mongers. #We’llSleepWhenWe’reDead

Home Sweet Hope

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I have loved every place I have ever lived, which is a little weird because I probably really (really) shouldn’t have.

In college, weeks before the start of my junior year, I got word that my two-bedroom apartment – my first foray out of the juvenile dormitories and into supersonic (yet perceived) adulthood — had burned to the ground. Room mates scrambled to find housing and I ended up sharing a dismal studio apartment where — for an entire semester — I shared equal time on a couch or the floor. Dormitories be damned: it was awesome. For real. My friend Betsy and I bonded like sisters, mastered extremely covert one-night stands and politely replenished the communal TV Guide and pack of Parliaments that adorned the coffee table. It was bliss.

After I’d gotten married I was equally excited about my newlywed apartment and why not? I had a queen-sized mattress for the first time in my life and my beauty needs always trumped those of my newest room mate. That tiny bathroom was mine. The apartment was so small I don’t believe I even noticed that my shiny new toaster oven took up the only patch of counter space I had in the walk-in kitchen (not to be confused with the dimensions of a spacious walk-in closet. A walk-in kitchen is precisely that: once you walk in, you can’t walk out if a person has come in after you).

My first house was right out of the book (the book of course being entitled You Might Want to Keep Looking). Gaudy, garish and situated between a junk yard and a train station that — professionally enough — had been bypassed by our savvy realtor every time we visited. Didn’t matter; it was our little slice o’ heaven. We embraced the avocado green appliances and did what every other first homeowner did: filled it with cheap furniture (bought on credit, twelve months no interest), pretended to really (really) like the 80s-inspired mauve-and-sage green color scheme and painted a nursery in pastel colors. There were slugs in the basement (to this day I cannot comprehend how they were getting in), there was paneling on the walls and we were happy.

When we said farewell to our families and fled to the beauty of New England, we fell under the enchantment of the (cue in heralding angels singing) New Construction. There was no garage (not unusual in these parts), there was only one full bathroom and it was blindingly vanilla. Cheap (white) Formica, cheap (white) linoleum, cheap (kinda white) walls and we barely even noticed the poor quality of construction. It was our own little Cape Cod castle and we were thrilled. We dumped a pool into the ground, threw up some outdoor speakers, invited friends up the entire summer long and partied like rock stars. It was our fun house. The house that found TV stardom on a makeover show. “Don’t touch our tile floor,” we pleaded. But they did. And we didn’t care. Our home was brimming with laughter and babies and milestones and debt and I thought we’d stay in it forever.

Alas, life beckoned. We needed to keep paying the bills so off we went again, only this time into a whole new world. We got a true taste of luxury when life directed us to a beautiful college town outside of Charlotte, North Carolina. Fate found us riding the real estate wave full-throttle into a lush golf course community and ginormous brick home. We went from having no garage to three. There were hardwood floors and media rooms and bathrooms for every person old enough to wield a Lysol disinfecting wipe. There were pools and socials and Bunco and chardonnay on the deck through November and it was nice. Really nice. But somehow it didn’t feel like home. Something was missing. We jumped at the first opportunity to transfer back and were heading home within ten months; amidst all the grandeur and greenery we didn’t even last a year.

So back to New England we went and found another perfect abode. There wasn’t a rockin’ pool and there wasn’t outdoor wine drinking after August (without a parka) and there was continued and horrific plumbing issues (because there is never going to be a septic system big enough for boys-to-men bodies) but I loved it. It was a mammoth house big enough for our family of six and all of our out-of-state visitors and – once again – felt like home. It was the house of graduation parties and karaoke and stunning bog vistas and man, we had the absolute best run there for fourteen years, our longest stint yet.

Once our chicks started flying the coop we moved one more time found a smaller place in a quiet coastal community. Turns out ocean walks provide a pleasant distraction from the echoes of an empty house. My kids roll their eyes in frustration (Really? You get a beach house after we move out???) but they know it was a strategic move. Guess who now visits for weeks at a time each summer? Gotta sweeten that pill, people!

Am I in my forever home? Meh. Only time will tell. I’ll continue to savor the memories made within it over the bricks and mortar because really, it’s just a house.

But I do know, without question, at this particular moment in my life, I am in my favorite home. Ever.

Why I’m Saying Fkkk That Sh*t To My Milestone Birthday

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BadGrannyS

I don’t believe it’s my looming milestone birthday but for whatever reason, I’ve been in a bit of a rut.

It’s not that I’m concerned about being chronologically on par with Cindy Crawford or the remaining members of the Brat Pack (that’s right, Emilio, suck it: still younger than you). I’ve just been stymied on how to keep this blog going.

You see, for years I’ve made a grand ol’ spectacle of using my kids as fodder. But now that they’re older, it’s getting harder to navigate the fine line between respectful-young-person-privacy and must-tell-all-about-their-colossal-stupidity. I spend so much time wondering, Wait, can I say that? the dueling voices in my head are in a constant smack down. It’s certainly not cool to bring up the angst and eyerolls of budding romances, right? And it’s downright inappropriate to reveal what’s been going on in their bathroom, no? And, sure, as universally head-shaking as they may be, I imagine it’s not helping their future college/employment/parole endeavors to bring to light any questionable behaviors. Gaaaaah. Damn kids, always sucking the fun out of things, amiright?

So it’s gotten me a little stuck.

I love to write and I want to keep writing so in an effort to get the creative juices flowing again I’ve decided to bite the proverbial bullet (annnnnnnnd fine, perhaps reveal my true narcissism) and shine the spotlight on myself for a change of pace (cue in sighs of relief from spouse and spawn).

As I mentioned, yes, it’s a pretty big year coming up. While I don’t feel any different than I did ten (sometimes even twenty) years ago (hellllllllllo happy hours!), I have changed some of my thinking for how this next phase of my life will go. I’m finding I’m shrugging and saying Fkkk that sh*t to a few things I used to care about but no longer do.

In my mind, I was going to reach my milestone looking better than ever. Not unrealistically — as in, allow me to reveal the height of bridal fashion circa 1991 as I spin around in my wedding gown — but rather maybe showing up for any birthday fete in a cute little dress. I even gave up drinking alcohol for a month to kick start my transformation but if I’m being honest, that lifestyle change wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I sipped seltzer for thirty days and didn’t lose a single pound. Enough said. I may still wear a cute birthday dress when it’s time but if it’s not as tiny as say, JLo’s, so be it. I refuse to stress about it. To my healthier new me I say: Fkkk that sh*t.

I’d also wanted to hit my Big One with long luscious hair that rivaled my glory days so I simply stopped cutting it for almost a year. I thought, if Sandra Bullock can hold onto her tresses on the 50+ train, why not me? Turns out, without a personal stylist and hundreds of dollars in products, it’s nearly impossible. Still, I martyred on for months – curling and straightening my split ends into a damn near fire hazard. When I couldn’t stand the sight of myself another minute, the hair was chopped into a medium, yet manageable mane that is – naturally — oh so age appropriate. To my long locks of long ago I also say, Fkkk that sh*t.

Then there’s my car. Good grief, I’ve spent the better portion of my adult life eschewing minivans and everything they stand for and I’ve kicked and screamed against ever driving one. Now with learners’ permits gaining and passengers dwindling faster than I care to admit, it’s dawned on me how much I love filling up my car with lots of bodies and enjoying the conversations that go along with that. On the eve of my milestone, I realize I don’t give a rat’s ass about the car I drive. So I got a minivan – and a really, really basic one to boot. Actually, it’s pretty ugly. But it fits all the large, smelly bodies that I’ve got precious fleeting time with. And the way lower car payment makes me happier than trendy. So, to the unsexiest set of wheels I’ve ever known, I say, too: Fkkk that sh*t.

What better way to hit a milestone than to do so screaming irony, eh?

I’m sure as I inch closer to The Date I’ll come up with more things deserving of my Fkkk that sh*t mantra.

But I’ll have to save them up so I’ve got some things to write about.

Unless of course one of my kids becomes needy for attention and I’m given permission to tell you all about his time in the principal’s office … or the girlfriend’s house … or a squad car.

Just kidding.

For now.

What say we get this Milestone Blog Year going? Tune in, comment, share, repost and join me in saying Fkkk that sh*t to all the silly things that really don’t matter at all.

Hashtag, Bring on 50.