Tag Archives: Parenting

A Momoir, Chapter 11: Parenting Dum-Dum Adult Kids is Stressful – But it Beats the Alternative

I started writing this blog when my kids were little, way before I started taking joint supplements and sleeping with a white noise machine. The trials and tribulations of our lives have been well documented throughout the years because I’m hoping all the anecdotes will give my family something amusing to look back on when I’m busy haunting them from above (you know, since the whole baby book thing wasn’t exactly my strong suit).

At any stage, parenting’s never seemed a cakewalk but it’s always seemed relative. There was always fodder for material and especially for a blog, there was also a community for figuring things out. There was plenty of shared concern for surviving mystery hives or adolescent heartbreak or getting overlooked for the travel team (the injustice!) and there was never a shortage of advice (and commiseration) over lost homework assignments, kids incapable of getting to school on time or insufferable hygiene. We all muddled through together and motherhood didn’t seem insurmountable. My wise friend Jackie always raised her chardonnay to “Little kids, little problems.”

These days my adult kids have their own array of big-kid problems now but again, it comes with the calendar. They’re drowning in debt, juggling student loans, and trying to make rent. They’re realizing what a paycheck can cover and – more importantly — what it cannot. Dayum, life is expensive, they lament. Yes, it is. News flash: it always has been.

It’s difficult watching your kids misstep in adulting and even harder keeping it zipped when some of their decisions are not, I’ll say, advantageous to them. Poor decisions are tough to watch and even harder to witness when splashed all over social media (*throws head back, raises fists, gawwwwwwd, why is this not sinking in???). It’s also rough because we’ve come to know: if our kids are not asking for advice …. it’s usually a waste of breath offering it. My husband gets frustrated but I’m a bit more meh. Stop solving their problems with a fifty-year-old brain I often say to him. Or, when it’s time for the jugular: You did the same dumb thing when you were that age.

Still, even now, when most of their mistakes have far mightier – and costlier — consequences than a promposal gone awry (*cue Mom’s nagging Pay your fkkkking parking tickets!) I don’t mind this stage of parenting. I look at what’s going on with “little” kids today and I thank my lucky stars that time is behind me. I’m certain I’d be a lunatic trying to navigate motherhood in these times and I’m not so sure I’d agree with Jackie anymore; little kids seem to have way bigger problems now.

For starters, the social media is a complete nightmare. Kids going off the deep end because someone didn’t like their picture? Good grief. My heart goes out to teachers. I can’t even imagine what their days are like.

Add in the bullying, so rampant and accessible with (^^^) social media (Finsta?) and it is outrageously out of control.

Add in the heightened toxicity of enraged sports parents and it’s shocking. Horrible when my kids were playing, they are – according to headlines — downright homicidal now.

Add in the seemingly daily reports of lewd and lecherous adults in positions of authority and you’re left side-eyeing everyone. What. The. Effing. Effff.

Add in the desperation for Canada Goose, Louis Vuitton, Lebron Nikes or anything Kylie Jenner is shilling lately and it seems impossible to keep up.

Add in the school shootings.

And the mean girls now emerging before second grade.

And everything else that has succinctly squashed innocence and I say my kids figuring out how to keep their electricity on sounds way less dangerous.

Kids are getting snatched in broad daylight. I see faces from every state scrolling on my feed every single day. Kids are communicating with complete strangers online. Worse, they’re meeting up with total strangers.

I know, I know. I’m not naïve and I am aware all this terrible, horrible no good scary stuff has been going on forever. It just seems that the terrible, horrible no good scary stuff has reached a fever pitch with no ebb in sight. I’ll take a 30-yo ‘kid’ still living in my house over this any day, thankyouverymuch.

If I was raising little kids today, I’d be swimming against a tide of opposition and I would not be able to let it go and Elsa my way out of it.

I don’t want to know a thing about TikTok.

I don’t want to debate anti-vaxxers.

I don’t want to give to a Go Fund Me so your kid can go to Germany. Trust me: mine have never been and they are A-OK.

I don’t want to see breastfeeding or working or exercising or stay-at-home or ANY moms get shamed for doing ANYthing. This is total bullshit. Why does everyone feel entitled to expound negative opinions on anything that has absolutely nothing to do with them? It is 100% maddening.

Please. There’s even stupid stuff I wouldn’t be on board with (settle down, Target, no, I am not interested in buying decorations for the trunk of my car at Halloween. WHAT IS THIS?).

I just want things to go back to normal before I have grandkids, that’s all. We haven’t depleted all the normal in the world, have we? (Quite possibly: just got an early morning text from my bestie, alerting me that kids at her local university got in trouble for having a Corona virus party on campus –get it? Corona? Lol yes, but also: Sigh. Thank God there was no internet when we were in college.)

These be crazy times and my observations are neither new nor illuminating. I’m just glad my worries about pedophiles on the other end of video games are in my rear-view mirror and for that I am grateful. To all the moms of little ones fighting the good fight every day, you have my sincere respect, my best wishes, and my appreciative props. I’m sorry you must send in the list of ingredients on your bake sale brownies but I’m not sorry I missed that either.

If it’s any consolation I hear help might be on the horizon. There’s talk of lowering the voting age to sixteen (that’s a super good idea, right? she mulls, reminiscing about her own 16yo fashion choices in 1982) so maybe one day soon we’ll be saying Here comes Kanye to the rescue!

You guys can chew on that while I go hound a kid about the perils of late payments.

(Disclaimer to the Mom-Shamers: no humans were harmed in the writing of this blog, which was meant strictly for tongue-in-cheek, exasperated entertainment only. If any part of this this has angered you in any way, please: be better than me. Be Elsa.)

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!)

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

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My daughter isn’t a complainer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Umm, paging the awkward police.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

# # #

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!)

Just One Page

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boyz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Committing to succeed small steps at a time.

Imagine that?

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

Y’all check back again soon, ya hear?

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

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

Today I start by doing what she suggested.

# # # #

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was featured in the 2014 Boston production of “Listen to Your Mother: Giving Motherhood a Microphone.” Her work has been featured in NPR’s “This I Believe” radio series yet she places “Most Popular 1984” on top of her list of achievements. (Next would be the home improvement reality TV show of 2003 but her kids won’t let her talk about that anymore). A witty mother of four, she takes on cyberspace as @Eyerollingmom on Twitter and Eyerollingmom on Facebook. and@Eyerollingmom on Instagram.

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

Chapter 1, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/07/29/a-collection-of-eyerolls-chapter-1-yes-billy-joel-we-will-all-go-down-together/

Chapter 2, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/08/13/chapter-2-sometimes-kids-suck-a-lot/

Chapter 3, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/09/22/chapter-3-sorry-were-tied-all-kids-are-filthy/

Chapter 4, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2017/12/02/a-momoir-chapter-4-a-moms-plea-to-seth-rogen-enough-with-the-masturbation-already/

Chapter 5, Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/04/20/a-momoir-chapter-5-the-magnitude-of-the-middle-aged-mom/

Chapter 6: Click here: https://tinadrakakis.com/2018/08/24/a-momoir-chapter-6-im-not-always-like-you-mom-but-thats-okay/

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

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

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

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!)

A Momoir, Chapter 5: The Magnitude of the Middle-Aged Mom

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I’m at that age where my chin hair is growing in quicker than my leg hair. It’s okay, so far there’s not a lot of it. Just the occasional (cough, frequent) white, barbed wire-ish strand that I’ll absent-mindedly touch, then maniacally pick at, then frantically keep feeling for, then obsess over for the remainder of the day until I can yank it. (I now keep tweezers in my desk at work. I also keep fiber powder in there, too, so I bet you can tell where this is heading.) It’s not pretty but it turns out there are far worse things to fret about once you reach The Milestone birthday.

I try to remain positive but I’ll admit I’m finding middle age to be quite galling. Things are happening to my body utterly out of the blue, completely without reason and entirely against my will. Yes, there are things women who’ve celebrated The Milestone know are coming. We’ve been duly cautioned that hitting a certain age may find our hair turning to straw, our necks morphing into topical maps and our midsection gaining independence as its own sovereignty. We’re also aware that despite how much we slather, our crypt-keeper hands will forever tattle our true age. But hang on now. There is some serious unpleasantness happening on the downslope of that hill that people keep leaving off the memo. Some of that stuff probably deserves a heads up.

For instance, how come no one ever tells us we will never sleep again?

FortheloveofGod, most of us haven’t even caught up yet from the sleep deprivation of having babies. It is cruelly ironic that this bombshell comes on the heels of hearing every fitness expert alive shouting the same warning: that women cannot ever (EVER) lose weight unless we are getting a good night’s sleep. Whaaaaat?

Where’s the asterisk on this throat-punch revelation that also reveals – SURPRISE! – 90-minute-intervals of (let’s call them) naps are your new nighttime from this day forward.

Every single night I find myself sweltering … until I am convinced I am frost-bitten … or I am passed-out-exhausted …. until I am wide awake an hour and a half later – for the rest of the night. My better half and I (wisely) upgraded to a king-sized bed a few years ago and between our alternating aches and pains and our temperature battles and our long-nights-journeying-into-days… I’ll be dammed if that bed sometimes just isn’t big enough. It really blows.

Also, speaking of missing chapters in the guidebook, what about the poo? (That opening paragraph wasn’t a red herring; you knew this was coming. ) Good grief, just when we’ve got diapers AND adolescence (those inimitable non-flushing years) in our rearview mirror, all of a sudden poo is a thing again? What. The. Fkkkkk? I used to go away for entire weekends and – legit – not go to the bathroom until I was safely back home three days later (that freaked out the husb in the worst of ways). I used to marvel at friends who could effortlessly go multiple times a day, whenever and wherever they wanted to (complete freaks, if you ask me) because nope, that was not me at all. Welp. No sooner did I blow out a few dozen candles on a birthday cake did a tsunami of change sweep in. I’ve had more times when I’ve entered a ladies room to pee and — what the. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if another baby had dropped out of my body. Damn doctor-recommended fiber (now you understand the aforementioned office staple, next to my tweezers).

At this point though, a couple of years into my brave new world of Milestone Menopause, my reaction is a more mellowed meh and a shrug. Sigh. Tis just poo.

This getting old thing is not for the weak.

Without question, there are some pretty awful things about middle age: the overwhelming feeling of incompetency that comes with re-entering the work force (or – kill us — the dating game), having to navigate the holy hell that is social media (screw you, Snapchat, you’re stupid), even the phantom pains that spring up for no apparent reason (like rising from the couch. UGH). Throw in ridiculous weight gains and all the daily directives to give up sugar and dairy and alcohol and animal protein and carbs and be sure to walk six miles a day and do yoga stretches and meditate and take your Me Time and enjoy life (without dairy or alcohol or animal protein or carbs) and OHMYGAAAAWD. Who saw this coming? Remember when we used to complain about baby throw-up on our shoulders?

Deep breath.

Here’s the glass half full: It’s not all doom and despair. There are some super cool things about middle age, too. It is without question a great, great time to be a mom. Our kids are getting older, becoming real people, doing awesome things and becoming more companions than charges. Somewhere down the road they become fun: we can now play off-color board games with them and watch R-rated movies without hiding under pillows with embarrassment. Another truth: I am a completely different mom than I was so many years ago, a lot calmer and less uptight. Hell, I’ve even stopped screaming. Now I go low: the more my kids yell in protest (because hello, I’m not dead – there are still RULES, PEOPLE) the lower my voice gets when reacting to their nonsense. It’s like a villainous whisper out of a Saw movie and I highly recommend it; kids can’t grasp what hit them when we start acting like Anti-Mom, the total stranger who’s shown up to guide them from this day forward. Trust me, good times.

Middle age also gives us a boatload of hall passes for dumb things. We can completely ignore pop culture now because it has very little to do with us and that’s a blessing. Remember when it did? Remember when a sexy, ripped sweatshirt, some leg warmers and a dream made us believe we could escape a steel town? Remember when we wore business suits with (cringe) sneakers and socks and didn’t think for a minute it’d hurt our chances at a promotion? Remember how we worried if our lives measured up without city friends or coffee shops or Manolo Blahniks?

Turns out, a surge of self-confidence comes in with The Milestone and makes us realize we could care less what people think about our minivans and mom jeans. I don’t understand any song on the radio and I don’t want to because it seems everyone’s supposed to be grinding or smoking weed or living the thug life. Please. I’m happy to stay out of the loop on a lot of things now. Pass the Dutchie and allow me my presets of classic rock stations, thankyouverymuch. Keep your Kardashians and if I need a role model I’ll just Google Christie Brinkley because holy mackerel, have you seen her lately? — that chick is ridiculous

We’ve been liberated: anyone out there really give a rat’s ass about Cardi B? Didn’t think so.

We’re in a pretty good place now for sure but I’d be remiss if I didn’t reveal the absolute worst thing nobody ever tells you about hitting The Milestone. This one’s a doozie and I completely understand why no one talks about it. It’s the freight train that body slams you and knocks out your breath and is far more sinister than sleepless nights and bowel issues and belly fat and reading glasses in every room of the house.

What could be so bad, you ask?

How about the insane ticking of time – more like a Telltale Heart thumping – that is constant within your head?

Once you’re over The Milestone mountain there’s rarely a day that ends without at least one thought about the passage of time. It usually catches me by surprise when I least expect it, on the most innocent of occasions, and some days it’s just devastating. I once scrolled past a Facebook meme and became paralyzed at the words:

“One day you will pick up your child for the very last time and not even know it…”

The raw truth of that statement shattered me. My mind raced to try to remember. When did I last hoist any of them up onto my hip? How old were they… five? Seven? Eight? How could I not know?

How could I not know?

That simple sentence stayed with me – and saddened me – for days.

Another time my son tried to drum up some laughs by popping in an old video of his mom — super-duper un-sober — at a neighborhood party a dozen years earlier. Alright, alright, alright, while not my finest mom moment, I’ll admit it was pretty funny. But as the tape played I soon became fixated at the sight of him — my tow-headed little prankster — running around the scene in the background, no more than 5 years old. It was like falling down a rabbit hole. I became transfixed, watching him jump into my lap and snuggle into my neck, my neck which now, a dozen years later, may be morphing into a topical map.

It was debilitating. I pretended to laugh along with him in present day but inside … my heart was aching at the past, watching both his little hands hold my face and kiss me sweetly.

My eyes flickered between the screen and his college-age, muscular, hirsute frame.

How in the world did I get here so fast?

Tick tick tick.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

I don’t care about my crows feet. I don’t mind the girth of my muffin top. And being ready for bed by 9pm most nights really doesn’t bother me, either.

But the ferocious speed of traveling down the other side of the hill?

That is without question the absolute worst part about hitting The Milestone.

Really. I’d take the poo any day over that.

* * * * * *

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 Thongand 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 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 …

1 Reply

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!)

Party On, Dude! That Time Some Risky Business Happened at My House

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!)