Tag Archives: Parenthood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I didn’t pretend to understand it.

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

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

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

The other mother contacted me immediately.

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

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

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

Yeah. We get that. We do, too.

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

Yeah. Same here.

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

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

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

Let it go.

Let it go?

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

But…..but….but…..

But nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just wish it had been yesterday.

* * * Update * * *

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

and print this …

her seventeen-year-old returned home.

It was a long 47 days.

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

when SHE was seventeen years old.

Exhale.

* * * (Updated) Update * * *

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

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

Just. Hang. In. There.

xoxo

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

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

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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!)

Alone Again (un)Naturally

Dear Santa …

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I’ve made it clear that I’ve long given up on sending out holiday cards and letters (here’s why) but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a Christmas list.

Santa, most people know by now I am a fabulous yet flawed mom. If I’m being honest, I am super flawed. This parenting thing is hard and sometimes it seems there’s more opportunity to fail than succeed (despite what Facebook photos want us to believe). I guess like most moms, I could really use a few things to help me up my game and become better in the new year.

So if you and the elves can swing it …

First off, I’d like to request a stronger heart. Surely you already know I am overcome with pride that my oldest is adulting. He is living in his own apartment and working and schooling and contributing to society and well, successfully doing all the things that keep him from residing in my basement. This is no small feat so believe me, I am truly and greatly thankful. But just because all is well and good on the surface here doesn’t mean it’s perfect. You see, this independence-thing may be a bright light but it also breaks my heart a bit little each day. Maybe you could put a little something shiny under my tree that makes him want to call home … or check in … or show that he remembers he has a family at all? Even occasionally, that’d be great.

I’m also going to ask that you bring me some extra backbone to stop shielding my daughter — who’s also flown my coop – from life’s financial realities. Santa, please know I couldn’t be more thrilled that she is living a life most only dream of (that is, if you dream about seeing extraordinary places, being one with nature, saving the environment, helping children and making those around you pale in comparison to your genuine goodness). But if you’d only given me a little push to hand over ALL her bills to pay on her own, she might start to realize that the awesomely fun jobs with the most perks … don’t usually end up being the most lucrative. (Santa, please don’t use that ugly hashtag enabling. I get it. It’s just hard.)

Maybe while you’re unloading you can sneak a little perspective into my stocking? I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure that my handsome freshman crushing college (President’s List!) should really be front and center in my thoughts but my overwhelming urge to throttle him for his laziness at home always seems to throw shade at that. That he makes me scream the loudest in my own home is my own personal irony. If you promise to bring me a little help to recalibrate my thinking then maybe this kid just might make it to his sophomore year to continue doing great things. (And for the record, that Facebook post was legit, people.)

I don’t particularly need any but if you could spare a bit of common sense, I swear I’d share it with my youngest. Check your naughty list: he’s my adorable charmer whose foolish behavior defies the fact his parents have been to this rodeo three times already. He truly believes he has mastered the art of pulling the wool over my eyes (*Morgan Freeman [narrating]: Alas, the boy has not.) so if you can swing it, I’d definitely re-gift that gem and pass it on to him.

I might ask for a few tips to help me be a better wife (pffft, who are we kidding? no need there, let’s move on shall we but since I’m on a roll, do you think maybe you could throw in some willpower for the new year? Not to be a better mom, but definitely to look a lot less bloated. Honestly, my friends are entirely out of control. They eat, they drink, they dance (they battle for a karaoke mic) and if I’m not careful I know one day a mortician is going to struggle adhering my lipstick correctly because of the permanent smile they’ve engraved in my wrinkles.

Santa, I know I am enormously blessed and you know I’m just teasing with all this. But you should also know that every mom simply wants the exact same thing every single year but we never. ever get it: a slowdown of life. You know, that proverbial pause button. This gettin’-old sh*t is not for the weak. With each flip of a calendar page my life flashes before my eyes and a glaring proclamation of time passage hits me like a smack to the head. I speak for the masses here: we’d all like that to stop, please. Come on. The only time moms want a fast-forward button is during the teething, ‘tweening, and telling-us-we’re-lame stages. I’m at the last stage here: my youngest is now driving (you know, on occasion, when he’s not grounded) and he knows if he tells me I’m lame, he’s back to hoofing it so really, enough already.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, as the years go by I’m learning that the only gift worth a damn is time, specifically time with our kids. It’s the only collateral they’ll ever have worth anything to us. We all want it and can’t get enough of it. We want time to sit with them and talk … and watch TV … and play a game … and laugh … and drive to the store … even time to do nothing at all.

If it’s not too much trouble, could you just let our kids know that?

Thanks and – once again — sorry about the cookies (shrug. boys). Maybe we’ll try some kale next year. That’ll keep them away.

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

A Momoir, Chapter 4: A Mom’s Plea to Seth Rogen: Enough with the Masturbation Already PLEASE

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I first realized my teenaged son was looking at porn when I innocently picked up his Ipod. It wasn’t a cell phone. It was – I thought – just a music player. Remember those blissful days when you just didn’t know things? I had no idea his shiny new birthday gadget connected to the internet. At all. I only became aware of its mystical powers when I moved it off the bathroom counter (that’s right: in the bathroom. Sigh.) and it suddenly turned on. Well I’ll be, I thought, this isn’t Nickleback. Just kidding. Of course I did the Mom Screech when I stumbled onto it but looking back all these years later, I guess it was more than a little amusing.

He was my firstborn son and thankfully, was pretty discreet about all things adolescence. Trust me, I’d heard plenty of horror stories from friends about crunchy socks strewn on the floor and apocalyptic sheets stuffed into bottoms of hampers. Really now, save for that wee bit o’ porn, I’d managed to get through the grossest stage of his young male development relatively unscathed.

But fast forward a few years. Now my youngest two sons are teenagers and I’m about to lose it. Don’t get me wrong. They’re not heathens or sexual sociopaths or Jared Fogle wannabes. They’re fine. They’re just… well, I’ll say very comfortable in their almost-men skin. And by this I mean sometimes-naked-almost-men skin … usually viewed as a blur … running down a hallway … after a shower … because (naturally) … all the towels are still in their rooms.

At first I wanted to blame rap music. You know, all those songs about so many hos, so little respect (you feel me, dawg?). Thanks to crude lyrics and really (really) bad swear words in every other line that they insist on belting out in my car, it’s clear my sons have become desensitized to offending their mom. I resist the urge to constantly complain about their taste in music because (a) I know shaking muy fist ala John Lithgow’s Reverend in Footloose would color me crazy and (b) looking back at some of the stuff I sang back in the 80s (um… Cocaine… Touch Me… White Lines… I Might Like You Better if We Slept Together… just to name a few off the top of my head) doesn’t really give me a steady leg to stand on. But man, oh man, they are far from embarrassed in front of me.

Worse than the music they prefer are the movies they find hilarious. It might be just a coincidence of scenes I’ve happened to walk in on, but I’ll be damned if Seth Rogen and his friends aren’t – you know (cough) releasing energy — on any given weekend in my home. And smoking (don’t say pot, Mom, it’s) weed. Oftentimes in the same scene.

Gaaaack. How are they not embarrassed to watch this in front of me?

What’s a mom to do? Apparently (*shrugs in defeat) gather together for Sunday night family viewing of Game of Thrones. When in Rome (or rather … Westeros…)

I appreciate the openness of our relationship, I really do. It’s just colossally different than the relationship I shared with my own mom. Good lord, like it was yesterday I can flash back to when she took us to see Jaws. It was a double feature – and immediately after we were duly scarred for life of ever entering ocean waters again, the Deluxe Theater in Queens was showing the (at the time) risqué flick Lifeguard (ahem, for the young’uns: a sexy, Baywatch-esque summer sleeper). My sister and I sat like church mice, hoping my mom didn’t realize we were still there when the movie began. Fat chance. The steamy opening shot of suntanned boobies wasn’t on the screen a minute before she was yanking us out of our seats.

Dayum. Different times for sure.

Ah well. I suppose as parents we have to take the good with the mortifying, right? While I’ve seen my share of blurry, hairy asses to last me a lifetime, my kids are also un-embarrassed to talk to me. And I do love the ease in which conversations flow between my he-men and me. I didn’t talk to my mom about anything R-rated, let alone which 8th grade girls were doing less-than-ladylike things in the back of a school bus. Gawd, would you ever? So I do try to keep an open mind (and my face from scrunching too tightly) when we do talk. Our open dialogue isn’t always a laugh a minute and we’re far from yukking it up over condoms and opioid use. Some of our chats see blips of discomfort (the school bus detail — good lord) but there’s never been a rock-paper-scissors shootout between my husband and me to see who’s Going There This Time. I imagine if your kids are comfortable talking, any conversation’s a pretty damn good one, even a squirmy one. It’s all good.

I’m still not a fan of those masturbation flicks (hell, maybe my inner fear of millennials living in my basement in adulthood is at the root of that psychosis) but I guess it could be worse. So, I’m sorry for the judgement, Seth Rogen, and really, no hard feelings. I hope you’ll accept my olive branch (but seriously, can we talk about all those bongs…?)

# # # #

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 $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!)