Tag Archives: motherhood

It’s Hard Staying Hip with a Web of Naked Grannies

I own four older kids so I consider myself fairly seasoned. While little sends me into a complete tailspin, I have to admit, keeping up my façade as a hipster mom is tough work. (You feel me, bruh?)

I understand silly practices and passing fads and cultural missteps.

But there are some things I just do not get.

Crazy, controversial pop stars? Oh, I totally get them. Please. Hard as she tries, little Miley and her rebel tongue can’t hold a candle to my generation’s bat biting Ozzy, or our Milli Vanilli mega-scandal – even our evil Madonna and her hairy armpits (and hey! her unruly pits are back – and she’s like, 70! You go gurl!). So I get the nutty need for spotlight and notoriety. Twerk away, you silly, silly children.

What I don’t get is the svengali-like hold Tik Tok influencers have on, well, everyone. I mean, a herd mentality of being okay with fake designer duds isn’t necessarily a bad thing, sure. But getting all the kids to chug Tide and dangerously lethal Doritos? That’s just generational embarrassment.

I get the craze of do-it-yourself projects (declares this DIY reality TV has-been) … but I don’t get Pinterest. To me it’s merely a junk drawer of activities and recipes that will never see the light of day, kinda like my own little failure cupcake frosted with optimism.

I get helicopter parents (because I personally know a ton of teenagers that couldn’t place a coffee order correctly let alone apply to college without help) so I really don’t get the entitlement that comes with some of these coddled dum dums. Kids are meaner than ever to each other, they’re ruder than our parents ever would’ve tolerated and their parents are all over social media defending bad behavior, blaming EVERYONE else and acting just as bad. I don’t get this at all, whatsoever, not for a minute.

I get that the internet has become this gigantic billboard for personal achievement and in-your-face braggadocio and honestly, I’m fine with that. I’ve been known to post some good news — or better, the elusive I-don’t-look-fat–in-this photo so up it goes! once or twice. Over the top bragging isn’t a crime and some days it’s downright hilarious, thanks to all the folks who haven’t yet realized their kids aren’t nearly as cute as they imagine, so I’m a fan. No harm no foul.

But.

And this is a might big but.

I do not – and can not – and will not – ever understand the act of average people using the internet to post unbelievably awful and (wait for it …) NAKED pictures of themselves.

Funny story about how I might know this:

Being of a certain age, I’ll be the first to admit social media is a herculean task. The tweets, the shares, the posts, the blogs, the tumbles, the hashtags, the pictures, the OhMyFreakingGodEnough! staying visible and relevant on the damn inter-web is a full-time job. For a generation that wasn’t born sucking on an I-Pad, mastering all this techno wizardry is really the pits.

Still, I trudge on, every month or so trying to tackle another little tidbit of cyber success. I get myself on Twitter or set up a Tumblr account, whatever I can learn on my own (because hello, there’s only so much once can ask her kids before losing massive amounts of street cred). So yay me.

But the problem is, I’ll do all this techno trailblazing and then sorta forget about it all for awhile. So I basically have no idea what’s going on with any of these social media feeds for long stretches at a time. Shamefully, my hipster-meter drops into the danger (aka lame) zone during these times.

But every now and then I’ll become inspired and will check on all my accounts. At first I’d simply chuckle at my X-rated Twitter followers. Why HotCumDelight would want to follow Eyerollingmom is a mystery to me, but hey, a follower’s a follower. Why should I care? Woo Hoo, my 49 fans just jumped to 50? Let’s go!

One day (out of boredom? curiosity? a bathroom break? can’t remember) I actually clicked on a follower from one of my accounts and was shocked to the point of revulsion. Porn site, you ask? Nope. Worse.

It was a place where average women posted naked selfies of themselves. I’m talking naked and knowing – as in smiling at the camera – in all states of lewd poses. Women of all ages (shudder, a grand amount of Golden Girls included) happily allowing another person to take their nasty naked picture. Then posting it onto the world wide web.

Yikes. It scarred me so deeply I had to stay off my laptop for almost 30 minutes.

If seeing granny’s gems or Aunt Sylvia’s stretch marks is going to keep me hip, sorry folks, it’s back to Nerdville I go.

Ick, ick, ick.

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!)

The Legend Of Lee: Grandpa Eggo Forever

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Now that my step-father has passed away, I am parent-less. It very well may be that the idea of this is more unsettling than the actuality of it.

As many adult children will concur, when a parent is sick it is all consuming. Your own life becomes a secondary area of maintenance. You rely on spouses and friends and neighbors to ensure everyone is fed and transported while you tend to your beloved mom or dad or, in this case, step-dad (which puts a slightly different spin on things, which I’ll get to in a bit).

Illness, even while happening at a snail’s pace, oddly blurs through your life at a breakneck speed. But when illness has taken its ultimate toll and you’re done plowing through arrangements and funerals and logistics and planning … it’s still some time before you notice the finality of events.

Suddenly one day you’re no longer worrying about a sick parent. Or any parent. And it’s kind of a weird thing. As a parent, with parents, I had many roles. Now, not so much.

When you do focus on your family again you might notice – really notice – that your kids are taller, or your dog’s fatter or your home’s exterior paint looks pretty crappy. You can move forward and tend to things you hadn’t given much thought to in a long, long time.

It’s a new page in a new chapter.

And it startles me that the act of putting together photo boards for a wake makes me realize how few pictures I’ve actually taken the time to print out of late. Stupid smartphone.

The short story, still chock full of irony, is that my mom passed away almost three years ago, leaving behind her husband, my step-father – a man 20 years older, in failing health, and completely in the throes of elderly entitlement and negative outlook. He was pushing 90 at the time of her death and had lived the life of a quintessential old school husband – completely assuming that any female in the room might be happy to fix him a plate of food or gladly accept the wad of cash (his salary) that he’d hand over in exchange for taking care of him completely.

Saddled with the reality that he could no sooner walk to the mailbox than live alone, there was more than one occasion when my sister and I looked at each other with a “wtf?” glare of disbelief. My mother had a wicked sense of humor. (Well played, Mom, well played.) We took care of him from the minute she was gone and (with great patience) journeyed with him for two years, nine months and nine days until he was able to get to where he really wanted to be; back by her side.

He came into our lives while we were ensconced in adolescence, a knight in shining armor to a single mother of three children, and we treated him with the indifference any teenager might have. So long as he didn’t interfere with our Friday nights in the Burger King parking lot, what did we care who he was or what he did?

But what he did was nothing short of amazing.

He put my mother on a pedestal for more than 30 years. He taught us to drive. He absorbed every icy shout of “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” we could hurl. And with every infuriating and bigoted nuance of his personality (“…please stop calling them colored people, it’s been frowned upon for a long time now…”) we came to love him deeply.

He walked my sister and I down the aisle.

He was present for the births of 10 grandchildren.

He never gave up on the Mets.

He ate 4 Eggo waffles with his coffee every morning before 6am, securing the adored “Grandpa Eggo” into our vernacular for always.

And yes, with his nifty black glasses on, he resembled Carl Frederickson from the movie “UP.”

We will forever smile at that.

He was a kind and decent man and lived a full life with the woman of his dreams and a family that embraced him. I am not saddened that he’s gone because while putting on a brave face, he has been lost and aimless and miserable living in a world without my mom. But I can’t help but be a bit melancholy, though, because in times like these, our own mortality blazes in our minds.

Cheers to a man who brought smiles to so many.

And apologies to my children, who now have a mom that can fully devote every ounce of her attention on them … and their schoolwork … and the state of their bedrooms … and their behavior … and their curfews … and …

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!)

When it Comes to this Mothering Thing, Who’s Better at it: You or Your Mom?

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I never talked back to my parents. Yet my own kids talk back to me. A lot.

My children also raise their voices to me when they’re angry. Think back: would you ever?

Worse still, I often have to tell my spawn to do something multiple times — multiple times —because my continuous requests are repeatedly ignored. Can you even imagine?

As another Mother’s Day approaches I can’t help but reflect on how remarkably different I parent than my mother did. When I dig deep I have to admit: there are times I feel completely overrun by the people in my home that are less than half my age. I don’t think my own mother ever felt that way one day of her life. In fact, she wouldn’t put up with one minute of what I tolerate from my children.

Does that make me a worse mom than her?

In all fairness I should throw it out there that my kids are not rotten. Not in the least. And never have been. They were never the tantrum-throwing toddlers in the restaurant, or the give-a-pinch-when-a-grown-up’s-not-looking schoolyard brat or the current topic of conversation in the teachers’ lunchroom (didn’t know about that? oops, spillin’ secrets here). They happen to be the epitome of respectful individuals when out in the real world and are quite well liked. Actually, if I’m being completely honest I’d have to say they are, in fact, fairly boast-worthy children.

So why do they shit on me?

Usually after a particularly bad display of disrespect from one (or two, or three, or all four) of our kids, my husband and I will have conversations about this, scratching our heads (okay, maybe while downing beers). We question how in the world we got to be parents of children who easily display behavior that would’ve resulted in a swift backhand from any – and all – of our own parents.

We think back and remember the fear in our homes and the physical repercussions of any type of conduct unbecoming. It certainly wasn’t unusual back then. Actually, it was very, very typical. We all did what we were told – the first time – because it far surpassed the alternative of NOT doing so.

But there is no fear in my own home today. There is no apprehension for questioning or stating opinion or disagreeing. It gets loud, sure, and at times inappropriate, but no one’s ever hesitant about speaking up.

There are other blatant differences in my home now that speak volumes to how very different my parenting style is from my mom’s.

For instance, my kids talk to me way more than I ever talked to my mother at their ages – about cringe-worthy topics that would zap the frost straight out of my mom’s bouffant. Eighth grade girls doing decidedly un-eighth grade things in the way back of a bus on a school trip? Sixth grade classmates experimenting with drugs? You name it. Details are anted up without pause, over nightly bowls of pasta or during car rides to practice. Like, nothing. No big deal.

Also, my kids tell me they love me – all the time and for no particular reason. My first distinct memory of saying “I love you”— out loud — to my mom was from a payphone in the middle of a dormitory hallway during my freshman year in college. As I am forced to go through my third Mother’s Day (cough, now with this 2024 update, my thirteenth) without her, my heart still gets heavy when I think of this and my regret pains me. It was way, way too late in life to have started that.

No doubt about it, my kids are being raised in a different world entirely. My mother didn’t socialize with my friends’ parents. I would venture she didn’t know most of their names at all. She didn’t come to many school events and never checked to see if I was doing homework.

If I had to make a list, I’m pretty sure I’m involved in a gazillion more things with my four than my mom ever was for me.

Yet the loves of my loins – all of them – have moments of intolerable selfishness, insufferable self-absorption, whininess, rudeness and petulance. And – why hold back now — they occasionally swear.

So I do wonder: Who’s done a better job at this mothering thing, me or mine?

What do you think?

With all her failings, my mother’s love for me was ferocious and I knew that every day of my life. She raised kind, smart and capable children.

With my own failings, my love for my children is ferocious and they, too, know it every day of their lives.. I am raising kind, smart and capable children.

I’d say we both win this one.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us – the successful ones, the failing ones and the holding-on-for-dear-life ones. We got this.

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!)

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

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Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you will feel the Mom joy once again.

Happens every time.

Happy Mother’s Day to All of us!

The Good, The Bad & the “Girls”

Sleep Me off My Feet (PLEASE)

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

It was like a dog whistle.

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

And it was 10pm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eyerollingmom spews snark daily:

http://www.facebook.com/eyerollingmom

http://www.twitter.com/eyerollingmom

http://www.tinadrakakis.com

Through the Looking Glass (gulp)

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My daughter recently asked me to read her college essay.

I was honored. She’s a stroke of brilliance, that gal is, so I was secretly delighted. I’m not a notorious helicopter parent in the least so – as it was with my oldest son – I didn’t know a thing about it. I wasn’t even entirely certain where she was sending it either.

As a rule, I keep out of the whole college thing. Really, I do. Sure, we talk about it and have dinner discussions and car conversations and all that jazz but I hardly embed myself in the minutia that most parents do. Why? Because I honestly believe that if a teenager cannot successfully get him/herself into college without a parent’s help, well, then perhaps they’re not quite ready for such a massive, maturity-driven endeavor. That’s just me.

By his senior year, my oldest son was a classic ding dong in high school. I love him like mad but good grief, that kid held a 22-average in Math, barely got out of bed, and made me believe I spawned Satan that year.

It’s easy to understand why I embrace this hands-off approach: I was so pissed at him the whole stinking year I was ready to stand with my arms crossed across my chest and gloat like a madwoman with a slew of “I told you so”s by the time graduation arrived.

Cue in visual of bubble popping. It never happened.

Because …

HE, my adored ding dong …

got himself into college — every one he applied to — without one iota of help from me.

(caution, parental brag ahead: He then went on to throw the Irony discus at me and got himself into the Air Force Reserves as well. He graduated with honors from there and is in his freshman year at college as I type.)

Go figure. Life. Funny, right?

So here I am doing the college thing again. Only this time I’m a wee more interested because my daughter is soooo not a ding dong,

I was excited to read her essay because as an AP/Honors/All-Around Super Student, hallelujah, I was due, man…. I knew it would be terrific.

I poured a glass of wine and started.

It began with the words, “My mother writes a blog.”

Um …..

What?

I took a hearty swig before continuing.

I won’t go into detail about the content except to say that when I finished, the swelling of pride in my heart equaled the shotgun-like-blast to my temple.

Hooooooo boy.

Think about it: pick one person who knows you the most, can see your soul the clearest and well, let’s not sugar-coat it, alternates between loving and loathing you the fiercest. Now ask that person to describe you. Now ask that person to provide greater detail about those descriptions.

Talk about enlightening. Have I mentioned the whole love/loathe thing?

If she sends this out beyond admissions offices, she will become famous. I, in turn, will be duly screwed.

I write about my life and the people in it all the time I tell what I believe to be humorous accounts of my family, I detail the days and the friends that make me frustrated or sad or joyous and, okay, sure, I rant about the idiot sports parents that make me furious. I don’t really think twice about the content too much because – and here’s the Aha Moment – I assume that since what I’m writing is true … then it certainly can’t be … wrong. Right?

The shoe being on the other foot was interesting indeed.

Truth is, I like it way better being behind the thoughts and words than in front of them.

(Loud? Am I loud? Really? Are you sure?)

Yikes.

Of course the piece was brilliant.

I never had a doubt.

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!)

When Bad Kids Happen to Good Parents

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This NJ parent-suing-cheerleader case is making me see red.

Because it totally could have been me a few years ago.

I wouldn’t consider myself a mean mom, but I have been known to hand my kids a scraper and say “Get to work,” after finding dried boogers on the wall next to their beds.

Some days, parenting is easy.

Honor Roll allows a kid to keep a cell phone.

A clean bathroom gets another out the door on Friday night.

Clearly my parenting philosophy doesn’t involve much head-scratching so I have to admit, I was ready for the adolescence of my children. Growing up on Long Island in the unsupervised 80s, my friends and I had mastered the art of outsmarting authority and evading evidence of typical teen shenanigans.

I had this, I thought. Bring on the acne.

I never imagined it would culminate with a composed call to the police, asking them to come get my child.

It was especially trying — and surprising — when my second born, a daughter, went through her head-spinning-Linda-Blair stage first, at fourteen. While she was screaming and carrying on about calling Child Protective Services and attempting to bore holes into our foreheads with her fury, my oldest son just flew under the radar. A junior in high school, he was a typical, well, boy. Immature, uninterested in school and willing to eke by with the minimum of work exerted. By most standards, the textbook teen.

He was always a bit young for his age but rather than dwell on his mediocre grades we tried to focus on his charm, and magnetism. Extremely good looking, he was similarly well-liked, mainly due to his good nature. He was — mother’s pride aside — a delight and I just loved the stuffing outta him. Always have.

Turns out, this extreme love came in handy when I began to hate him.

I don’t recall exactly when the metamorphosis of my good-boy-gone-bad began but I do remember every detail of warning, every red-flag.

With each incident I tried to keep perspective. I even rationalized. I did this, too. The drinking. The pot. The skipped school. The scummy friends. Wasn’t this typical teen territory? I even admitted, at times sheepishly, I did far worse (thank you, 1988). So I tried to keep a cool head and held firm with consequences. Even though much of the time I felt like I was swimming against a tide (a tide of parents who unfathomably presented cars for sixteenth birthdays and provided smartphones through school suspensions) I did what I was supposed to do. My litany of repercussions included (but were not limited to): grounding, taking phones, taking plates off cars, paying for NOTHING (yearbook, class trips, clothing, toiletries, prom, car insurance) ….. Good God, we took away everything. We joked with friends that my son lived an Amish lifestyle.

He Just. Didn’t. Care. About anything, it seemed.

When enough was enough, we finally took his four-year-college off the table. We had done our part: attended freshman orientation, bought the sweatshirts and travel mugs, kept our hopes high for some show of maturity. It didn’t come. As senior year came to an end, he still hadn’t gotten it.

No way, we said. There was no chance we were going to strap ourselves paying for a university when he wasn’t even getting himself to high school – for free. We told him he needed to get his act together, prove himself responsible and start with a junior college. It was all we had left. We privately envisioned that kid – that headline-storied kid each year – that ends up dead in a dorm room from alcohol before classes have even started.

Nothing seemed to work. So we told him to rethink his plans for the future.

Turns out, our Great American Parenting Plan backfired because well, he left.

He just left.

He called it moving out. But conventional wisdom would argue that throwing some clothes in a duffle 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 any angry fanfare or slamming doors — my oldest child left our home six days before his high school graduation.

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.

But he was a good kid and we were good parents.

And I guess I knew deep down that he’d be back one day.

He was. After a long and fretful 47 days.

When he returned we spent what was left of the summer reconnecting as a family and licking our wounds. Damage had been done and both sides were duly cautious about a recurring Groundhog Day of past occurrences.

But things were far from perfect. In time, familiar nagging doubts started creeping in. There was a level of distrust that I just couldn’t shake. At times I seemed sadder now that he was home than when he’d been gone. Things didn’t seem much better and I wondered if I would ever again feel joy when my son walked into a room.

Disrespect is a mighty deal breaker in my home and I do not believe a refrain of “This is my home and these are my rules” should be up for interpretation. When my beloved son’s behavior started down the slippery slope of insolence once again, I felt stronger and wiser when I addressed it.

Not long after he returned, he decided once again that our curfew was unreasonable and didn’t come home.

When he did… his room was packed up, our locks were changed and we were waiting.

I told him since he wasn’t ready to resume living in MY home with MY rules, he needed to leave. He refused. I showed him all his things. He still refused to leave. I then called the police.

I wasn’t afraid of the neighbors seeing, or knowing, or talking.

I wasn’t afraid of him actually leaving either. I realized I’d survived the last time he left, and would this time, too. And this time, it was going to be on MY terms.

I realized I wasn’t afraid of anything. And that the absence of fear was indescribably empowering.

We sat together calmly, in silence, and waited for the police to arrive.

I have to say, when they walked in they seemed surprised to encounter a domestic disturbance that wasn’t terribly disturbing at all.

The officer in charge kindly – but sternly – let my teenager know the deal: It was 48 hours before my son’s eighteenth birthday, therefore by law, we were required to care for him. But only for two more days. After that, should they get called again, they would have to take him out of the home.

It is my honest belief that a couple of changed locks and a few police cars will do wonders for a teen’s psyche. It changed everything for us.

My son learned a lot of things that day. He learned we were absolutely done. And he learned (thank you, officer) that if you expect to live in your parents’ home, you should expect to follow their rules. Period.

I believe – no, I know – that once this became clear to him, it may have been his personal epiphany. It was as if his rebellion started to break away and let some clarity emerge. Hell, maybe it was simply a badge … or a look of “Really, kid?” coming from someone other than his own parents.

I have absolutely no idea why it never sank in before that moment. I likely never will.

It was a dark and rocky couple of years and – no joke – at times paled in comparison to my daughter’s fright fest at age fourteen – but we got through it. Good parents raising good kids usually do.

It was excruciating and difficult to do what most parents don’t seem to have the strength to do: follow through with consequences and demand respect. But we did. Even though it damn well felt as if our family was in tatters, we held strong.

The joy of my firstborn, while on hiatus for a heartbreaking while, eventually returned.

These days as he’s careening into manhood – an Air Force Reservist and college student — I still love the stuffing outta him and my face lights up again whenever he enters the room.

But I am keenly aware there are still a couple of house rules that make him squawk.

Ah well.

Too bad, right?

I so hope this story gets to those sad parents in New Jersey because their beautiful cheerleader needs a reality check. And soon.

Follow Eyerollingmom on Facebook and Twitter and catch all her blogs at www.tinadrakakis.com

Calling All Moms: The Mother of all Celebrations

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I’m breaking a bit of news here.

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

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

You say insufferable …

I say …

(cue in visual of a victorious Mary Katherine Gallagher)

SUPERSTAAAAAAAAAAR!

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

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

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

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

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

And likely … they’ll be pissed.

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

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

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

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

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

So … if you are a friend …

Or a (blog) follower …

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

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

Get gussied up …

and grab your guy …

or grab a girlfriend (or seven) …

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

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

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

http://listentoyourmothershow.com/boston/

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

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

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

WooooooooHooooooooo!!!!!!!!