My childhood played out in the 70s and my adolescence was fine-tuned in the 80s so despite a legitimate fear of the ocean thanks to fictional cinema, I grew up a genius.
Okay maybe not an actual genius but definitely brilliant – especially compared to my kids at that age. Diplomas aside, I’m sorry, what in the world happened to street smarts?
I grew up knowing things. Cool things. Important things. I could Name That Tune in three notes. I could get anywhere with directions taped to my dashboard (because my friend’s neighbor’s cousin had just traveled there so I knew which Sunoco station to pass then make the next left). I knew precisely how fast I’d have to run home to make curfew for every minute I’d chosen to overstay my good time. I’d mastered public transportation by age thirteen (that was just sink or swim – seriously, whose parents were driving them anywhere?) The things I didn’t know I just sort of figured out, usually by spying on the older kids making out under the street lights.
My kids most definitely could never have swung a covert six-hour road trip to a Genesis concert at the Syracuse dome without GPS OR alerting any parents. They wouldn’t know how to stash two friends in the nearby bushes while hitching to a movie (ooh, big disclaimer here: kids, do NOT try this today. There wasn’t any crime back then and no internet to scare us about it if there was, so this reckless act would definitely not be considered brilliant today). Our refrains of the Reagan era remain to this day: How are we even alive or better, Did we even have parents?
When one of my sons (birth order has been redacted to protect the humiliated) graduated high school he texted me at work to ask if I had a template he could use for his Thank You cards. Wait, wut?
A friend told me her son sent cash to the DMV to pay his $400 speeding ticket. The worst part? They actually accepted it so now he thinks his mom’s a nagging lunatic that needs to chill out.
Another’s kid peeled out and sped away from the police after being pulled over – then he forgot to turn off his headlights after he’d successfully ducked into a random driveway down a side street.
Good lord. Am I the only one with concerns?
My kids fully acknowledge my stealth upbringing ruined them. Getting past me with red eyes or minty breath? Not a chance. Skipping school? Fuhgeddaboudit. They were doomed from the start.
They can keep their TikTok; I will forget more in my lifetime than my kids will ever learn.
Good thing they’ve got itty bitty computers in their pockets. If only those were ever charged.
***
Tina Drakakis blogs atEyerollingmomand 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!)
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 atEyerollingmomand 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!)
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.
Motherhood is definitely not for the weak. Usually around the changing seasons I become a bit melancholy, thinking of the obvious passage of time and kids getting older and – always – my mom who passed a number of years ago. Parenting without a trusted beacon is a challenge sometimes. It makes me ponder how I’m doing as a mom.
If I’m a bit subdued to begin with, this year in particular finds the universal mood not helping. Still absorbing the almost daily dreadful news of multiple mass shootings at the hands of young adults, I recently scrolled across other appallingly awful headlines:
“17-Year-Old Kills Cat with Bow and Arrow”
“2 Teens Throw 6-Year-Old Off Museum Roof”
“Teen Expelled, Arrested for Racist Gun Video, Says He ‘Hates Blacks’”
My God. How could any parent ever imagine that phone call?
I’m a pretty avid fan of true-crime (not a podcast band-wagoner but a legit 1980s Ann Rule aficionado) and I know horrific, unspeakable acts of violence have been going on for decades. Decades. The only difference is now we hear about them daily (thank you, Internet & frenzied mosh-pit of media). Seems these stories are appearing more and more frequently and the sheer amount of young perpetrators is more than a little unnerving.
As a mother, my thoughts inevitably turn to the parents of the accused. How did they – how could they – not know something was seriously, horrifyingly amiss with their kids?
I think I’d know.
I think I’d know if my kid was hurting animals.
I think I’d know if my kid was using (stockpiling, fantasizing over, obsessing about) guns.
I think I’d know if my kid was hateful. Or racist. Or intolerant. Or more than just a typical, idiotic, sowing-his-oats-with-stupidity adolescent.
I would know. I’m sure of it.
I’d know because at the risk of being incredibly disliked by my kids, I’ve always set boundaries. Boundaries that distinctly indicated right and wrong behavior. Boundaries that let them know when a line was crossed. Boundaries that specified exactly what was not going to be tolerated and why.
I even utilized rudimentary (okay sure, judgmental) boundaries that also offered acceptable and unacceptable suggestions about societal presentation. Take tattoos. I don’t dislike tattoos and most of my loved ones sport them. Some are even 100% mandatory (crushing your 1st NYC marathon at age 50? Ink up, my rock star husband!). But I’ve never allowed my kids to have them – unless they wanted to relinquish rent-free living in my home.
Why?
Because along with the obvious (if a kid has money to burn on body art shouldn’t a kid have money to contribute to my groceries or Game of Thrones bill?), I also believe kids are super dumb and shouldn’t have to pay penance forever for all the super dumb decisions they make in youth. I remember exactly what I said to my daughter’s emotional appeal while in high school: You don’t even wear the same clothes you did four months ago that you (*shriek) loved and had to have. What makes you think you’re going to (*shriek) love a tattoo at 25 that you picked out at 18? Please.
But here was my real reason: Teens and young adults have enough going against them without the side-eye of a judgmental society. It was my mantra: Life is hard enough, don’t do anything to limit your options.
Wait on it, I urged all my kids (so far, they have.) And good grief, unless you’re outdoors braving the elements, lose that ridiculous hoodie.
I had a recent conversation about boundaries with my son (you know, a conversation about why I was being the buzzkill parent saying NO for the umpteenth time). I told him about the father and teenage son I watched walking into a store ahead of me. The waistband of the kid’s pants hung just underneath his buttocks. I admitted to my son that my second thought (the first being, hmmph, I didn’t know that was still a thing) was, that poor kid. That poor kid doesn’t have one worthy adult in his life to look at him and say, “Pull your pants up, you look like an idiot” and that was incredibly sad to me. It made me wonder what else he was allowed to do unchallenged in his home.
I then told him about a cashier I recently encountered. It was at an icky thrift store (which – disclaimer and stone cold admission — I do NOT care for. I went in with a friend who absolutely loves them. Blecchh. Sorry, I yam what I yam. I don’t like those and I don’t go to yard sales. I’m a Walmart gal through and through: I’d rather buy it cheap and new than cheap and used. Meh. We all have our thing. Leave me to my draft beer in a plastic cup thankyouverymuch). Anyway, here was this young man: facial tattoos, spiked hair a foot high, earlobe plugs the size of teacup saucers chained to his nostril hoops … you get the picture. It was truly the stuff of parental nightmares. The thing is, I felt really bad for him, too. Was there not one voice of reason in his life to ever say, Kid, what say you pump the brakes on that idea? Or, How about waiting until you’re older to permanently scar your body. Or even, No, you will not visit your grandmother looking like that, go upstairs and change.
I wondered, did any adult ever forewarn these kids about limiting their options in life?
Please, oh please, see my big picture here. I am in no way connecting dots to declare that kids with ass-draggy pants and tattoos are all growing up to be gun-toting, hate-spewing mass murderers. My kids are far from pillars of society and I am actively in the trenches of vaping and weed and booze … Really — a soapbox I have none.
I just think maybe we can start someplace small with giving kids the boundaries they need, even crave.
If I can sustain countless arguments holding firm on the small stuff – the piercings, the rainbow-brite hair, the endless sleepovers, the curfews and – my favorite — the relentless “you’re the ONLY parent who does this” nonsense … you can bet your sweet ass I’d have a thing or two to say about my kid walking around in a trench coat. Or brooding around longer than what Dr. Phil would deem typical. Or talking back to a teacher. Or bus driver. Or any adult.
Killing children. Killing pets. Spewing hate. Hiding guns. Using guns.
I’m really struggling with it. Where does it start? How do parents not know?
How could you not know?
I would know. And if she was still here, my mom would know, too.
# # # #
Tina Drakakis blogs atEyerollingmomand 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 andEyerollingmom on Facebook & @Eyerollingmomon Instagram. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)
My husband just doesn’t understand me, not even for a minute. My kids might be mildly amused by me (if they even noticed). But the reality is, I am filled with unabashed glee when left entirely alone for a few glorious days.
My better half would rather rake sunflower seeds than spend any significant amount of time by himself. This might stem from having a job which alternately finds him either in the isolation of a home office or the insufferable free-for-all of an airport. Not sure. But I love it and look forward to. When his annual Guys Ski Weekend rolls around – conveniently after the exhaustive holidays have passed – I become giddy. Leaving soon? I ask innocently over my coffee cup on the morning of departure, willing my words to sound curious (instead of eager).
It’s only a couple of days. 72 hours really. Actually, only 48 (of time awake) if I’m nit-picking. But most women know: it’s awesome.
In the weeks leading up to it you know I got busy. I made an impressive list of all the incredible things I was going to do to make my life an organized Garden of Eden. I also planned new exercise regimens, compiled lists of time-saving chore hacks and amassed healthy recipes to try. I researched new shows to binge and books to download and selected restaurants that I’ve been dying to try.
Welp. Almost immediately my noble intentions swerved sideways so I accomplished little to none of the aforementioned plans. Because again, it was only a handful of hours of leisure, amiright?
Still, I made the best of it. Here’s what went down:
Day One:
As soon as the last of the male-stench had exited my building I started off by cleaning it — which (I cannot be alone here) always makes me immeasurably happy. I blasted Donna Summer Radio. And Def Leppard. And Miranda (Ironic Moment of the weekend: just how much Black Shelton is played on this station). Anyway, within a few hours my home got just the way I like it. The best part: it actually stayed this way for a few days. This turned out to be serendipity: when unexpected downpours thwarted my high-heel-wearing Girls-Night-Out, my gleaming home became the venue of choice for an evening that’d been in the works with a great friend. No problem – there was nary a drop of pee on my toilets and I had a pot of meatballs simmering. We drank wine in yoga pants, shared a meal and caught up for hours. It was divine. And not once did any intruder barge in to open the refrigerator and peer inside for eight straight minutes.
Day Two:
Alright, maybe I was moving a little slower today (*shakes head ruefully, mouths Pinot) but I couldn’t stay down for long. The crazy New England winter weather had flipped its fickle switch and brought an unexpected spring-like day. Off I went outside, work gloves and wheelbarrow in tow, to clean up all the downed trees from the wicked storms that had turned our property into a war zone. Now to be clear, this is not usually my gig. I’m actually a big fan of gender-separated workloads and live quite happily mopping floors while the men in my life mow the lawn and fix stuff. But I was looking for some bragging rights. I’m pretty sure nothing screams my wife is hot more than the image of her hauling away branches bigger than her own body. So I became one with my yard and had some fun with it, even stopping midway to post a pic when I came across a beer pong ball, hidden since a June party. Go ahead fellas, keep sending me those shots of your raised beers at Après happy hour. Mamma’s at home, gettin’ it done. #Iamwomanhearmeroar
After that, I cleaned myself up and went out to do a little food shopping, my brain swirling with the memorized Instagram images of all the roasted Brussel sprouts, toasted quinoa and sweet potato chips I was going to make because I just knew it was all going to melt my pesky muffin top in the New Year. Turns out, by the time everything was unloaded and put away the sun was going down and death-defying drops in temperature mocked the earlier beach day. My morning workout of manual labor started to catch up with me and I was dragging. I declined an invitation to go out, threw on some sweatpants, grabbed a comfy blanket and my book and clicked on a cheezy movie. Okay, maybe not a woman roaring anymore but …. #STILLawesome
Day Three:
I awoke to find it was still frigid outside so naturally I figured The New (Exercising) Me would have to wait a little longer. I read the Sunday paper to the backdrop of Frank Sinatra Radio and a funny thing happened. Nobody rolled their eyes at my nostalgic tunes or came sniffing around asking about bacon. I putzed around doing laundry and cleaning out my closet before devoting the afternoon to peeling, cutting, roasting and portioning my newly acquired root vegetables for the week. (side note: The New (Healthy) Me had no idea how time consuming this was when I started. I think I’ve figured out why all those Facebook recipes are on fast-forward). I continued tidying up things around the house – you know, nothing major, just all those things we walk past every single day and ignore – stopping every now and then to get lost in a random photo album I’d come across. Not gonna lie, melancholy showed its morose face for bit. The grey day began to drag. I checked in with my oldest and made plans to see him during the week. Then I texted the skiers and told them since I hadn’t heard from them all weekend I was keeping busy posting awesome old pictures on social media. I wasn’t ……
…. but their lol-responses delighted me.
When my husband called that night and coyly asked if they were missed, I responded truthfully: yes, they could come home in the morning. I was done. And getting kinda lonely.
It’s pretty wild how quickly a couple of days go by.
You hear that?
It’s the sound of silence.
It’s pretty awesome. You know, for a couple of days
Read any good books lately? Start one here: A Collection Of Eyerolls: A Momoir
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.
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 atEyerollingmomand 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 andEyerollingmom on Facebook & @Eyerollingmomon Instagram. Her collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)
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…?)
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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!)
We left our house overnight and The Party happened. You know, the pull-the-drapes-so-the-neighbors-don’t-see, call-in-the-masses and take-advantage-of-an-unsupervised- 24-hours kind of Party.
(I’m sure right about now Kristi and Schnidt are flashing back to our junior high days and howling with laughter. Quite possibly Nancy is flashbacking to throwing up in my mother’s washing machine. But I digress.)
Man, oh, man, these stories are so much more entertaining when someone else is telling them.
Naturally I became aware of The Party by the next morning. The kids were duly distributed at friends’ homes and the house was supposed to be empty. My oldest was leaving within hours after us for a work commitment.
Wouldn’t you know that work commitment had been cancelled? Um, as a matter of fact, no, we didn’t know. Because my son neglected to mention that.
Fortunately, my husband and I swing on opposite sides of the rage pendulum. That’s a good thing. We’d be on the DCF watch list for sure if we were both crazy pissed at the exact same time. So while his fingers gripped the steering wheel during the two-and-a-half hour drive home and a steady mist of steam exited his ears, I naturally tried to offer perspective.
Didn’t we do it, too (because… doesn’t everybody)? Didn’t we laugh, laugh, laugh when my sister walked in on teen Beer Pong in her own basement? Didn’t we kinda sorta expect this someday?
He seethed.
I reached. Didn’t we have friends who would be relieved, even thrilled if their less-than-social kid threw a party?
He gripped the wheel tighter.
When we walked in, the house was empty. The Guilty stayed away.
I expected to return to an immaculate home.
I did not.
Funny what make that rage pendulum swung back in my direction.
Apparently I’d shown my cards too soon with my litany of text messages to The Guilty (beginning with “REALLY?????”) because once The Guilty realized the jig was up …. Apparently so was his attempt to cover up.
I found the curtains still closed.
I found the beer pong balls (that cackling you hear is coming straight from my sister’s house in Jersey).
I found the one (because hello, there’s always ONE) lone bottle cap wedged under the counter stool.
I found that every one of my towels was used for the hot tub. (This ticked me off immeasurably since a few of my luxurious — cough, borrowed — Carnival Cruise Lines beach towels have gone missing.)
I found the Red Solo cups neatly stacked … yet still sitting on the counter.
I found the bag of empties, smartly collected, yet (stupidly) placed in full view with the recycling.
I found toast still in the toaster, egg shells in the sink and overflowing dirty dishes. (I’m fairly certain these have nothing to do with The Party but seriously.)
I found that The Guilty is either the dumbest kid in the stratosphere … or the laziest.
And I can’t for the life of me decide which is worse.
I tried to pin the coincidental breakdown of the washing machine on him. While the repairman worked, I sipped my coffee and told him my story, fully disclosing that I was anxious to see if the awful grinding sound was a haphazard load of hot tub towels gone awry. When he handed me a sock that had lodged in the pump, my dreams of a magic bullet were squashed.
So I was steamed. And there were consequences. And it is very (VERY) unlikely that it will happen again (she says with fingers crossed and sister laughing).
But there were no damages.
And no police helicopters ala Project X.
And no Guido the killer pimp.
And nobody went running naked through my neighborhood (surely they would have been covered in fluffy cruise line towels).
And well, clichés happen.
I do love how stories like these bring out even greater ones. On the Monday morning following The Party I went into work still reeling a little.
My laughing co-worker immediately told me her best story (for we all have one) of her brother and herself throwing ridiculous parties all throughout high school — until the one time it got completely out of control. They met in the bathroom and made the decision to call the cops on their own party.
Called the cops on themselves. How great is that?
See? There is always a better story out there somewhere.
Always.
Tina Drakakis blogs atEyerollingmomand 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!)
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!
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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!)
The idea for this book was derived a super long time ago, during one Christmas break when my then-teenaged daughter stopped talking to me (for a mountain of reasons that will be peppered throughout this momoir but really, it happened so often, does it matter?). She was grounded for the entire vacation and I was committed to making sure she didn’t bolt or sneak out so I stayed home, too, (you will soon see why I’ve crowned myself the Mother of all Martyrs). Misery may love company but cutting off a teenager from her friends is really quite satisfying. I had a lot of free time so I just started taking notes. Lots and lots of notes. (A side note: I take notes all the time because again, I am of a certain age and can only remember song lyrics of my youth. Remember when I wrote on cocktail napkins to remember details of my hilarious cruise?) Digressing again. Anyway …
Ironically, she’d been pestering me to write a book for a long time. Of course at that time her literary requirements consisted of summer love and vampires so I’m hoping she’s not too alarmed at what emerged from her urging. Had she known my first attempt would be (somewhat) at her expense she might’ve toned down her behavior a notch, but hey, a book’s a book.
The last of my four children is now a teenager so I’d like to think I’ve gotten a decent handle on this adolescent thing. You know – that out-of-the-blue explosion of angst and rage and emotion that’s been known to destroy a family dinner with a single grunt. One thing I’ve found is it is significantly easier dealing with irrational adolescent behavior when someone you know has already experienced it. For example, one time upon hearing my daughter threaten to turn me into the authorities I (naturally) called her bluff, scoffing, “Go ahead – make the call.”
In retelling that story (who wouldn’t?) I discovered that my friend Jerry had a way better response when it happened to him. He shouted back to his insolent teen, “Go ahead – make the call – and tell them to bring a body bag because they’ll be making a pick up!”
See? Older and wiser plus additional experience equals a far funnier story. I love Jerry.
It pays to surround yourself with people who have weathered earlier storms because someone else’s story will always top yours and you might realize we all come out of this alive.
Like I said, I’m no expert but I am somewhat experienced. I know I’ve got more melodrama headed my way but for the record I’ve already survived:
A kid sneaking out of the house after I’d gone to bed. Repeatedly.
A kid coming home high.
A kid lying, stealing, drinking, plagiarizing, and being an all-around dickhead.
A kid packing up a duffle bag and moving out six days before his high school graduation.
And about a gazillion other dizzying incidents that – God willing — may seem uproarious many, many years down the road.
That’s really my only goal here: to one day find each excruciating and hellish kid antics humorous in some small way. I think parenting is easier when you believe it might.
Haha, remember that year you got so angry you threw all your Christmas presents in the garbage?
Remember when you fried your laptop by spilling nail polish remover into it?
Hey, wasn’t that hilarious when you left all those wet towels on the floor and they permanently warped your floorboards?
Ohmygod how funny was that when you lost two cell phones in two months?
For sure, those are some things that were absolutely UNfunny when they were happening in real time. But man, oh man, I think we all need to believe they will be one day. I’m a big believer in camaraderie and an even bigger advocate in the healing power of laughter. I think the world’s a prettier place with daily laughs and nightcaps, and Tylenol PM and a sound machine (oh wait, nevermind, that’s my bedtime list) so I try to look on the brighter side of say, wanting to punch your kid in the face, and I always try to look for that clichéd light at the end of the tunnel. It’s always best if that light isn’t an oncoming freight-train of a kid’s hormonal fury but deep breathing helps. Sometimes.
Let’s be real: kids suck a lot of the time. They really do. They test your inner core and oftentimes leave you questioning where you went wrong. They make you wonder how their once-adoring eyes could ever hold such genuine resentment of you. They continuously criticize you, and complain about you, and keep so much of their real selves hidden that you’re convinced they were swapped in the hospital. But we stick to the plan because at some moment in a lifetime a hundred years ago we, too, loathed our lame parents the exact same way. I think deep down we all know that one day this moment in time will be amusing and our Good Kid is going to return and we might actually like each other again. It’ll happen. Right?
I’m here to attest that yes, it will.
Hopefully your good days outnumber your sucky ones because – especially if your children are still small — there will definitely be some doozies to come. Just remember that despite their declarations to the contrary, we are all good moms doing our best. If you’re like me, you’re making some major-ass mistakes (letting my 11-year-old be the Beer Pong ringer at his cousin’s grad party? Perhaps not my finest mom moment) but at least we’re learning as we go.
My missteps have continued as my kids have gotten older.
I scoop wet towels off various floors and toss them in the dryer every day without washing them. Every. Single. Day.
I also cut off my kids’ cell service when I couldn’t withstand one more minute of backtalk … and then forgot to pick them up because I hadn’t heard from them.
There was also a time (only once, I swear) when I texted my kid’s coach (perhaps … not … entirely … sober) to squawk about his playing time (a side note: if you’re going to try this, which I wholeheartedly do NOT recommend, first make sure the coach is one helluva good guy). Nevertheless, not an entirely proud moment. AT ALL.
Some of my best Mom Moments are a little unorthodox. For instance, I keep my cell phone charger in my underwear drawer and make sure my kids know it. Why? Because should it go missing – like all chargers do – I want my kids – especially my boys – to know they’d be fishing around through my panties in order to find it.
I wouldn’t order my daughter’s prom dress because she didn’t clean her room. And that was our deal – that it had to be Mom Clean first. But it never was. So guess what? She borrowed a dress and – gasp! – lived. If you can imagine, that scene was absolutely apocalyptic at the time (upcoming chapter entitled Got Girls? Get Wine) and (irony) I’m sure she doesn’t even remember that story now.
I’ve even changed the locks to make a rebellious teen know for damn sure that I was completely, stick-a-fork-in-me done with his nonsense.
I’m amassing a pretty extensive list but I don’t let it get me down. It pays to remember: The worst thing you will ever experience has always been weathered by someone else. I try to focus on the fleeting blips of positive. I’m pretty sure that for every really (really) lousy thing I do (or, in the case of changing sheets, don’t do), I make up for it in other ways. For instance, even though they tower over me now, I still kiss my kids a lot. And I tell them I love them all the time. I always have. The words are spoken so often that I now possess three sons who actually say it back to me even without a money transaction: in front of their friends, over their shoulders as they’re scooting out the door, and (yes, sir) sometimes even when they’re mad at me. And teens are mad a lot. One time, when it dawned on me that my moody and excessively ornery ‘tween was attempting to become an Ornery ‘Tween Bedroom Mole, I demanded impromptu hug practices and made him stand locked in an embrace with me until he smiled. We’re moms. We’ll do whatever it takes.
My home is pretty nasty at times (here comes my pat on the back from nobody-cares-about-your-undone-chores-Oprah; you know, spoken as if she’s one of us and might have some dust in her life) but I know I’m a pretty good mom regardless. There are still moments when I watch my kids from afar. Not in the “Get back here, a stranger’s going to steal you!” kind of way, but in a fascinated, still-can’t-believe-they’re-mine way.
Nowadays I don’t have to write much down since I can immediately promote their perfections and pitfalls in my blogs and the super honest billboard of Facebook (insert many laughing emojis) but one thing’s for sure: these babies grow up when we’re not even looking and life is too damn short to dwell on dirty sheets and sour demeanors.
Yes, oh yes, kids do suck. But when they’re in the back seat of a (cough, extremely cool) minivan giggling over the stupidest of stupid bad-gas jokes, they suck a little less and make you giggle, too. And every now and then when you’re ready to lock yourself in the bathroom for just five more minutes before your head explodes off your neck, they’ll do something unexpected and delightful to make you unlock that door.
When they were little, when they’d hear Barry White come out of the speakers they’d seek me out (“Mom, it’s your soooooooong!”) and spontaneously dance with me in our kitchen. I loved those moments. It’s all about the moments.
My kids may roll their eyes at my I-pod but hell to the yeah, they know all my songs.
Now that they’re older and (* makes the sign of the cross) out in public without me, every now and then I’ll get the mother of all compliments (no pun intended) when I least expect it, sometimes from complete strangers:
You’ve got great kids.
I’m thinking a terrible mom would never be able to pull that off.
So yeah, I’ll be keeping my phone charge in my underwear drawer, thankyouverymuch, because who knows, maybe I just may be onto something here.
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!)
Eyerollingmom 