Tag Archives: Santa

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 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) 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.

 

Merry Christmas y’all!

xoxo

Eyerollingmom

 

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

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

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

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

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. 

 

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College Kid Heading Home? Release the Kraken!

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My daughter, a college freshman, comes home this week for her winter break.  This means my emotions — like every other college parent’s – are running the gamut of YayyyyyyyyyyOoooooooohhhhhNoooooooooo.

 

Cue in collective nods from those who have danced this dance before me.

 

She’s had four months of independent living, coming and going at leisure, not having to answer to anyone and doing whatever in the world she feels like at any time she feels like it.  These typical rites of college passage no doubt will make her transition back to home a nightmare of unparalleled proportions.

 

Guess I’d better get my thick-skin-suit out of storage.

 

We had a tiny bit of friction during the long Columbus Day weekend.  We had a bit more (cough) differences of opinion during Thanksgiving.  But let’s be real here.  A few argumentative moments here and there are nothing compared to the barrage of discontent that will fester over five weeks.

 

Five looooooooonnnnngggggg weeks of

 

… ridiculous rules (because ‘don’t start a load of laundry and then immediately leave the house for twelve hours’ is …unreasonable?)

 

… crazy curfews (because bars can kick people out soon after midnight but parents shouldn’t?)

 

… and outrageous expectations to be – I don’t know – an active member of this family (because popping in for an occasional meal or – dare to dream – coming out of a bedroom for more than fifteen minutes at a time is … irrational?).

 

Yes, we are all sorts of looney over here.  Poor kids – it’s just like West Point under this roof.

 

I know, I tell her, I remember.  My mother and I drove each other nuts every winter AND summer I was home.  I keep telling my daughter that, like it or not, it is the way of the world.  That it is something every college student since the beginning of time will go through.  Naturally my sage sentiments fall on deaf ears.   She tries to reason …

 

It’s not fair.

She’s responsible.

She’s intelligent.

She makes good choices.

(All true, I might add.  But then she’ll throw in some crazy statistic like …)

 

She’s the ONLY one with a curfew

(or, worse)

No one else’s mother even cares what they do or what time they came home.

(No one?)

Nope.  Not one.

I then call balderdash and bam! we’re right back to a Saturday Night Smackdown.  It’s sure to be a tough time but I’m ready.  My litany of retorts isn’t very creative but it’s plentiful.

 

This is not your dorm room.

Get used to it.

It is what it is.

I felt this way, too.

Because I love you.

Because I said so.

I do trust you.

It’s only about safety.

I understand.

I get it, I really get it.

and so on…

and so on..

But nothing is changing.

A mom is a mom is a mom.

 

 

Evidently we shall never see eye to eye on this but I imagine we’re not supposed to.  I just hope she doesn’t sulk away her vacation like Greta Grump and enjoy some of the time while she’s with us.

 

The house, while still busy and loud and messy … is a brighter place when she is here.   I so don’t want to be in Def-con 12 Battle Mode during the holidays.   I kinda just want to watch movies under fuzzy blankets with her … and do a little shopping … and share some late lunches … and well, just sorta be with her.  She’s eighteen and the years are moving her into adulthood faster than I can finagle.  FortheloveofGod, she’s talking about Africa next year. I just keep shaking my head.  And catching my breath some days.

 

Maybe, just maybe, she’ll go a little easy on the old lady and go with the curfew flow and pick up her room every few days.

 

Who knows.  It could happen.

 

Santa, you reading this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Surviving the Santa Sucker Punch (year 10)

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My yearly disclaimer:  because of the universal chord it strikes, I have declared this my very own “Yes, Virginia” tradition and continue to publish it each year, complete with updates.   Ho, ho, ho,  my friends!

Show me a parent who’s a little wigged out by the inevitable birds-and-bees talk with their child and I’ll show you a parent who hasn’t even thought about – let alone attempted – the Santa Claus talk.  Heads up:  nothing – nothing – prepares you for that ambush while innocently watching a sitcom.  Give me reproduction or Heather Has Two Daddies any day of the week, thank you very much.

“You guys buy the stuff, right?”  It came from my oldest, an 11-year-old who is blissfully naïve, heartwarmingly immature, and constantly questioning why he can’t use words like crap.  He IS in sixth grade, you know.  He held his newly formed Christmas list.

“Why do you ask?” my husband’s panicked eyes pleaded for me to jump right in at any time.  I was too busy weighing the odds.  I was sensing that the question held an honest desire for truth, yet I couldn’t be certain a bluff wasn’t involved.

Last year I was confident the belief was still there.  My friends and family couldn’t accept that my wide eyed middle schooler dutifully wrote his letter to Santa without question.  Sure, there was talk on the school bus and there were kids with older siblings and yes, there was a slight wane in his interest in gathering around to watch those goofy Christmas shows from the 70s (Burger Meister Meister Burger, anyone?).  Still, I knew the dreamlike image of a man in a red suit rousing him from sleep (at what – five years old?) was embedded in his memory.  I could tell there was something in his eyes that wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know.

My husband’s cough seemed forced.  “Well what have you heard?” (Wasn’t that always a good parental deflect?)

It was as we’d expected.  Damn those kids on the bus with older brothers.  Ugh, what to do next?   First, we had to consider the sibling factor.  We’ve got three more coming down the pike and quite frankly, I love a household full of innocence and wonder.  It’s magical primarily because it’s, well, fleeting.  Could it be over already?  Second, I wasn’t entirely sure he could pull off a covert mission of betrayal to the brothers he still chased around with swords and the sister he lived to torment.  This couldn’t be a good thing.

Sensing our concern, he pointed out that he stopped believing in the Easter Bunny a long time ago (because come on now, a bunny?) and he still keeps that from the little ones.  And that he’d gotten the “other” talk almost two years ago and never spills on that, either.  Good point.  So why was this so much harder?

It’s simply a door that closes on childhood that just blatantly makes us sad.  It’s a milestone that isn’t measured in pencil marks on a doorframe, can’t be captured on film, and doesn’t exactly make our lives easier like some other benchmarks.  Honestly, sometimes we can’t wait for them to get just a little bit older.  We anxiously await the first hot dog that is eaten with a bun.  We secretly rejoice when swing pumping is officially mastered, allowing us a few more luxurious minutes on a playground bench instead of in a sandpit wearing sandals. Some might even want to dance naked when their youngest FINALLY starts to toilet train (okay maybe that’s just me). These are milestones indeed and we look forward to them.  But some rites of passage sure do stink.

While we openly dread learner’s permits and after-prom parties, we tend to forget about the smaller life moments that affect our kids – and us — before acne:  Their first order off the adult menu that is actually eaten in its entirety; The way their new big teeth completely change the look of their faces, quietly erasing the baby-ness from their features; The first time you notice – really notice – that their legs are so much longer since the last time you seemed to look.  It’s these times that grip our hearts and keep us frozen just for a moment.  Just slight, inconspicuous reminders that calendar pages keep turning and candles on cakes keep taking up more space on the frosting.

“Yes, it’s us” my husband blurts out.  Subtlety obviously isn’t his strong suit.  I probably would’ve gone a softer route but I admired his zeal.  The last thing you want in life is your kid being made fun of by a bunch of kids on a school bus.

“And it was me in the Santa suit” he spat.  (Whoa, easy there, Tonto, give the kid a minute to digest….)

It was a nod and a matter-of-fact shrug that acknowledged the news.  He handed me his Christmas list and looked spy-like over both shoulders, “Mom, I really don’t need #8 on my list.  You can cross it off.”  Another check of the perimeter and then a wink and a whisper, “It’s kind of expensive.”

Well break my heart in half and bring on the acne.  I’ll be dammed if that kid doesn’t get #8 this year.  Maybe he’ll even get two.

*  *  *  *  *  *

2009 Update:  that blissfully naive 11-year-old is now an awesomely out-of-touch 16-year-old hoping Santa brings him (pick one) a car, I-Phone or mountain of cash.  He’s obviously still blissfully naive but he’s kept our secret like he promised he would.

2010 Update:  that blissfully naïve 11-year-old is now filling out college applications (sigh…. we just don’t speak of this topic without also employing the phrase “God willing”).   His sharp-as-a-tack 11-year-old brother (irony?) keenly keeps his Christmas desires to a financial possibility.  And watching from the wings is an equally suspicious 9-year-old, who really wants to believe…..but……since the Tooth Fairy bailed on three straight nights…..is having some…..doubts……

2011 Update:  that blissfully naive 11-year-old is presently enlisted in the United States Air Force Reserves as an Airman.  The only thing he’s asking for from Santa this year is his mom’s meatballs (she, in turn, is begging for an endless supply of L’Oreal grey coverage).  My teen diva — surprisingly — has nary a thing on her list.  She’s got a job, a boyfriend and a 1994 Nissan with roll-up windows so life is pretty close to perfect right now.  My sharp ‘lil tween, fresh into his first foray of romance, is desperately seeking some Old Spice Swagger under the tree to keep him smelling gooooood.   And my baby…..my ten-year-old baby…… is ready to shout from the highest rooftop that HE, too, knows THE TRUTH about all this nonsense and HAS known for a VERY LONG TIME.   And thinks he should get an I-Phone.  Because — he insists — 10 is the new 15.

2012 Update:  that blissfully naïve 11-year-old is now a college freshman, who really just wants to sleep in his own bed awhile before next semester begins.  I know.  How and when in the world did that happen?  The weird thing:  our countdown is finally up.  My youngest baby – who was in diapers when this story began – is now a point guard on his basketball team and wears a bigger shoe than his mom.  Never again will I have a blissfully naïve  — or any other for that matter– 11-year-old in my family.  Some days, when I least expect it — I won’t lie — it just makes me really, really sad.

REALLY sad.

2013 Update:    Nowadays the “children” in my home consist of 2 young adults and 2 ever-growing, ever-eating teens.    When we recently sat down to Thanksgiving dinner — when college classes and freshmen football and work schedules and every other life commitment of six people all miraculously meshed together for one day —  I had a moment when I believed Santa came early.  A happy and laughter-infused occasion, I wanted to freeze the moment in  time.  It was a little magical.

Now more than ever before I am acutely aware of time passing quickly.  Unbearably and unfairly quickly.

Because of this, I look for a little magic all the time.

Everyone should.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

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