Tag Archives: teenagers

You Should Never Argue with a Crazy Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma, You Ought to Know By Now…

I had four kids in seven years and right about now’s the time when that little stroke of brilliant timing (or lack thereof) is kicking me in the ass. My youngest is 13 (I just watched him eat twice since dinner ended. No. Wait. He here comes again…) and my oldest will be 21 in a few weeks (he believes that anything in the ballpark of that number gives him the green light to crack open beers in his room. Then throw the empties under his bed. Yeah. I may be down to three kids soon. I digress…). Throw in a 15-year-old (who spends more time grooming himself than his five family members combined) and a free-your-mind, what’s-the-big-deal, 19-year-old college sophomore (who has yet to meet a house rule that “makes sense” to her) and you can see why I’ve gotten a bit testy this summer.

In a nutshell, I’ve got a crew of kids coming and going at all hours, eating incessantly and displaying less-than-favorable teenage behavior, all while leaving a trail of clothes-dishes-wrappers-towels-slop in their wake. It’s making me see a shade of red which far surpasses the sunburn on my side boob (because really, isn’t there always that one spot you miss?).

Eventually though, somewhere in the dog days of summer (like now), when I have tripped over my final straw of strewn sneakers, my testiness turns to rage.

When my good nature is taken advantage of – I won’t sugarcoat – I get pissed. I start to reflect on the good life I provide for them. Then I think about all the cooking and cleaning I do, as if I’m running on some sort of masochistic hamster wheel. Then I begin to fixate on all the things they don’t do (if only that damn dog didn’t don his invisibility fur all summer maybe, just maybe they would know he’s here!). Then, finally, when I realize my simple house rules are broken to the point of parental ridicule, well then I become incensed.

Psycho Mom used to make an appearance during times like these. She’d rant and rave and carry on like a crazy woman and take away electronics and ground any kid in her peripheral and maybe in time she’d regain control for a little while longer. These tactics still work for the teens; I’ve duly hidden my boys’ X-box until their summer reading is finished and one kid’s already lost his phone for the entire summer for being a dum-dum. But as kids become older sometimes the game rules have to change. If you’re raising your young adults like I am (see my 5 tips from an earlier post), your kids are already making financial contributions to your household. It’s hard to ground a kid who’s driving around in his own car that’s insured by his own dollars. Tricky indeed.

So now Ball-Buster Mom pops by instead to take over the disciplinary reins. Example:

My husband and I recently took our two youngest away for the weekend, leaving the two young adults at home to proceed with their employment obligations, take care of the invisible dog and well, act like responsible young adults. Left behind with them was a litany of clear (VERY clear) instructions and expectations.

About that…

I won’t bore with the details (hell, I’ve already been to this rodeo and have written about it here) but let’s just say that within six seconds of entering my home upon our return, the young adults were busted.

Friends staying over without our knowledge, approval or consent? Check. Partying like it was 1999? Ha! Been there, done that! Stop denying – despite your insistence to the contrary, that one little bottle cap under the toaster oven screams otherwise, so…again… Check.

So the guilty were charged accordingly. Since they both used my home like a hotel room, they were each made to ante up the cost of one: $125 a piece.

As a receipt for their weekend play, they were given full disclosure and sage advice: Should it ever happen again they’d likely be charged quadruple that amount and would find themselves on the needy side of some pretty hefty finances. Last I checked, those student loans had co-signers on them. Just sayin’.

So Ball-Buster Mom made $250.

She’s probably going to put it aside and use it to get to Long Island in September when her high school reunion takes place. Then she’ll tell everyone this story and yuk it up with all her old friends who did the exact same thing back in the day.

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 collection of essays, A Momoir, can be found here (agent interest ALWAYS WELCOME!)

Keeping the Peace: 5 Things Your High School Graduate Needs to Hear

Leave a reply

Nothing screams middle age like having high school graduates for kids. And nothing screams may-not-make-it-to-old-age like the arguments that ensue once these kids have tossed a tasseled mortarboard into the air. If you have the pleasure of living with young adults under your roof, pour a glass and make sure there’s ink in your printer. Remember seeing your mom’s yellowed Dear Abby column taped to the fridge? You may want to start up that tradition.

If living harmoniously is your goal, then without question, these 5 things need to be said to your (eyeroll, sigh, shudder) young adult:

You will contribute financially to this household.

You can call it rent, room & board or even appreciation fees. Whatever it’s called, something should get coughed up each week and it has little to do with the obvious fact that everything increases with every warm body that is planted in a home. Food, water, electric, cable, everything. That’s a no-brainer. The more important reason for pitching into the household is because you should, that’s why. Period. Throw in a few home cooked meals and access to unlimited laundry and geeze, you’d be up a creek if you had to pay for all this stuff outside of this home. Be happy to hand over a minimal yet reasonable amount. — even if it’s an occasional pizza. Fun fact: we can see your trail of food wrappers – we know how adept you are at buying your own food! Double down on the Dunks, saunter in with some subs or take charge of the taco tab. The gesture is immeasurable. And you’re right: we don’t NEED your money. This is irrelevent. You don’t see it now but our absurd and unfair demand to contribute to your family is building character — as well as an appreciation for what things cost, of which you truly have no idea.

This is my house, therefore it is MY bedroom. You get to sleep in it.

You are welcome to enjoy continued privacy in this space that is covered under my mortgage payment, so long as you respect this space. Foul smells coming out of it render your privacy null and void. The detection of wet towels, food items or ANY suspicion of conduct unbecoming also nullifies the terms of your privacy.

We are your family, not your room mates.

Picking up after yourself is a sign of respect for those who live among you. Not doing so is a blatant sign of immaturity which indicates you simply do not understand this. No one wants to see hairs in a sink, step on toenail clippings or find food, utensils, blood, body parts or schmegma in the bathroom. If people can figure out what you’ve eaten for breakfast based on the remains left on the kitchen counter, you are being rude. The maid is far too busy pruning the money tree out back. Put stuff away and get rid of your own mess. Common courtesy, that’s all.

Rules are in place for respect, not ridicule.

We get it. We were there once, too. You’re not the first kid to shriek about all the humiliating injustices of your parents. But if you’ve been given a curfew, it’s likely because you’ve given us reason to enforce one. If you’ve been given limits on the car you’re driving, the same holds true. The easiest fix for this is to start doing what’s requested of you, understand the importance of proving your maturity through actions over words and earn OUR respect. Want to come and go at your own leisure? Simple solution: buy your own car and pay your own insurance.

Being over 18 doesn’t make you a grown up.

Please. Stop stomping your feet, diploma in hand, and screaming that you’re an adult now. It only makes us giggle. The only thing you’ve accomplished to date is getting through high school. Big whoop. It’s the 21^st century, filled with technology that practically reads the books for you. You’re supposed to finish high school. Whatever path you’re on right now doesn’t detract from the reality that you are presently living with your mommy and daddy and you will not – cannot – be considered a grown up under these amusing circumstances. Until you are financially independent you are decidedly NOT a grown up. Don’t be mad. Don’t sulk. And don’t ever be foolish enough to think the grass is greener elsewhere. I defy you to find a living situation better than here (yet if you do, I will most certainly help you pack your things). My motivation is solely love. I am doing my part in preparing you to be a decent human: a good wife, mother, or husband, a stellar employee, an upstanding citizen or an under-the-radar inmate.

You. Are. Welcome.

Love,

Mom

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

4 Replies

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you will feel the Mom joy once again.

Happens every time.

Happy Mother’s Day to All of us!

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!)

Desperately Seeking the Humor in Perfect(ly Flawed) Children

4 Replies

I used to blog a lot more often than I do now and coming up with a legitimate excuse for the slowdown has been well, trying. It’s certainly been easy enough to wallow in a series of unfortunate events, specifically, that my original blog site of 5+ years just up and shut its doors with a month’s notice. It forced this self-proclaimed techno-tard to start anew, without a built in (and – cough – ego-soothing) fan base of hundreds of readers that I’d come to kinda sorta delight in. I’m still clumsily navigating my way through what millions of other bloggers do with ease and the truth is, sifting through (and sure, reposting) five years worth of material is sometimes easier than coming up with new and exciting stuff. It shouldn’t be this hard but when a personal pity party combines with life whizzing by at a Nascar pace, it’s daunting in more ways than one.

I still own four kids and (God Almighty, YES) they’re all still doing incredibly stupid and blog-worthy things but here’s the thing: as we’ve all aged in the years since I first began telling tales about them, it now seems to be taking longer – wayyyy longer — to find the humor in all their trials and tribulations.

Almost unbelievably it seemed one day I was spilling stories about a kid hawking his Dollar Tree fig newtons for lunchtime profit and the next I was gasping for air in a teenage tsunami of sneaking out, drinking, lying, denting fenders, …

What the …?

Kind of a bummer, right?

I find myself suddenly pondering when and how this particular nonsense might become hilarious and where, oh where, are those damned little Legos that used to claim my unsuspecting arches and find me howling in fury? If I had a dollar for every time I ranted about wet towels on the floor I’d have a down payment for a liquor store I now need to get me through this adolescent and early adulthood stage of development. It’s seriously making me pine for the sleepless nights of infancy.

Little kids, little problems. For sure.

So yes, I’ve been a bit stuck for a while.

Lucky for me I’ve discovered that life can surprise you, can inspire you and can smack you in the ass every so often and make you feel creative again. Thanks to some pretty amazing people I have decided to try to get back on my horse and get this blog thing up and running more frequently.

For the inaugural Boston performance of “Listen to Your Mother” I spent my Saturday on stage with some ridiculously inspirational women. I sat among a Teacher of the Year, a Boston Globe columnist, a bunch of published authors, an adoptive mother of nine (not a typo) and a slew of other professional and remarkable women I at times couldn’t even comprehend why I was with. I’ve really got to admit, I couldn’t help but feel electric amid them.

I soaked in undeniable energy from my co-performers but also had a different, more personal source of motivation for wanting to be a better blogger. The faces of my kids were in that audience and they were beaming. That was kinda cool. Even my daughter, the topic of my adored piece, was smiling. Fun fact: she had the chutzpah to take a bus in from college to see the show – even after I’d texted her the photo of all the empty liquor bottles I’d just found under her bed …). That girl’s got moxie. Like her mutha. I like it!

Maybe seeing their mom up there “killing it” (their words) was more cool than it was embarrassing. Maybe all the dumb-dumb things they’re doing right now really aren’t that funny but probably are very universal for parents of high school and college kids. Maybe continuing to blog about them might make other moms realize (sing it, Billy Joel) that we will allllllllll, go down, TOGETHER.

So I’ll go back to jotting down all my little thoughts like I used to do (because now that Middle Age is my friend, these ideas and anecdotes fly in …. then out … of my head without a shadow of proof they ever existed to begin with (ugh… gotta write it down sistas, ya got to……) because every now and then a bunch of funny thoughts makes a funny little blog.

I’ll leave you with my unexpected morning: Fourth born (seventh grader) tells me that after a week’s vacation, he was up at 4am “almost” throwing up. It’s not that I don’t love my Little Baby Fug to the moon and back, but (sigh) he is my pathological liar. Since I had to spend my morning screaming and grounding and taking away electronics and unhooking Xbox AND changing the wifi password… I was steamed. Who pads their morning routine for crap like this? Not me. When I came home today he was working on a poster/project that mysteriously went untouched all week.

He probably won’t get sprung until Memorial Day. Dummy.

See? I’ve got tons of these.

Stay tuned.

Another fun fact: this was originally published 2014. See? Proof that we all get through this. We win!!! You just have to keep a list of all the wifi passwords!

* * *

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!)

Through the Looking Glass (gulp)

1 Reply

My daughter recently asked me to read her college essay.

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

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

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

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

Cue in visual of bubble popping. It never happened.

Because …

HE, my adored ding dong …

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

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

Go figure. Life. Funny, right?

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

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

I poured a glass of wine and started.

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

Um …..

What?

I took a hearty swig before continuing.

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

Hooooooo boy.

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

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

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

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

The shoe being on the other foot was interesting indeed.

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

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

Yikes.

Of course the piece was brilliant.

I never had a doubt.

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

Happily Hangin’ with the Dirty Boys

Leave a reply

My friends already know I gave up skiing a few years ago. It really wasn’t a stretch. I honestly never loved it and once my youngest began to fly past my embarrassing attempt at it, I was done. I immediately acknowledged that the role reversal of children now looking after mom on the slopes was an unnecessary irony. (Hey now. This admission isn’t indicative of my athleticism. I’m fairly certain I can still execute a near-perfect cartwheel – in heels if I haven’t been drinking – so there’s no shame here.)

Still, owning a ski timeshare week in Vermont tends to keep the sport alive and well in our family whether I like it or not.

Whereas I used to take one for the team, I now take one for myself. Actually I take more than one. I take a few.

Minutes, of course. Minutes of precious, evasive time.

I take some time off of work to join them. I take some time to catch up on reading, and writing, and relaxing in a quiet condo or lodge (or, who are we kidding, Black Bear Tavern) while my family tears up the slopes and it is amazing.

Totally and unabashedly a-m-a-z-i-n-g.

Even better, I’m at the point where I have completely removed myself from the skiing process entirely: the planning, the packing and all the procedures that go with it. I throw some stuff in a duffle bag, shop for some snacks and basically well, show up. Because of this, I do realize my right to eyeroll is diminished significantly for a few days.

During the ride up, when my minivan of testosterone unanimously voted on a dinner of Taco Bell with a side of KFC – even though I have been trying really, REALLY hard to cut calories — I didn’t complain.

When the remainder of the car ride subsequently became a gaseous, toxic tsunami of unbearable proportion, I didn’t flinch. Even when a voice from the back cried out through the hysterical laughter, “Ewww, I think I just felt blood…” Nope. No Mom-reaction at all.

When, upon arrival, the entire contents of the van came spilling out onto the snowy ground the moment a kid opened the back hatch, not a snicker left my lips. Shrug. Wasn’t me who packed loose underwear in a laundry basket. Wasn’t my shampoo and deodorant (and said underwear) that went rolling under cars. Fun fact: we unreasonable nagging moms tend to remember to zip OUR duffle bags. Just sayin.

When I saw a toothbrush sitting untouched and dry on the kitchen table all weekend, I truly didn’t care. I was on vacation.

When I realized that 50% of the four teenage boys in tow never saw the inside of a shower stall the whole time, I didn’t even care about that either.

When, at day’s end, the outnumbering gender took over the main living area and zoned out in front of ESPN for (what seemed like) hours, I sat among them, indifferent and accommodating.

I didn’t ignore my happy little ski crew — I met them all for lunch and dinner in between their runs and ran around taking pictures like I’m supposed to – but I just sorta did my own thing.

Blissfully.

I relished a quiet condo and did things I never, ever do. I perused Facebook aimlessly – only this time without a judging, clucking spouse glaring at me from across the room.

I watched supremely bad television. Remember Jaws 2? I had it on every television in the unit so that while I went tidying and picking up throughout the various rooms I wouldn’t miss a minute. That. Was. Awesome.

In my time alone I even left on CMT (cough, that’s Country Music Television for those in the dark) all day long and, with no minions around to mock me, felt no indignity whatsoever. Again: awesome.

Even on the car ride home I refused to let their mayhem and (awful) music permeate my happy space. Hearing them all shamelessly sing (shout?) the lyrics to “I’m a Stoner,” “Talk Dirty to Me,” and “Drunk in Love” actually made me chuckle instead of wince. Hearing their man-child falsettos nail a four-part harmony to Katy Perry’s new song made me laugh out loud. Boys are funny aren’t they?

So it was a great time.

Unlike in years past, when I was a bumbling, scowling, cursing and freezing family naysayer, our winter bonding is now a win-win for all involved.

In fact, I may even bring up a non-skiing girlfriend next year to make it the ultimate in family vacations.

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

When Bad Kids Happen to Good Parents

4 Replies

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

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

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

Some days, parenting is easy.

Honor Roll allows a kid to keep a cell phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just left.

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

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

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

And I didn’t pretend to understand it.

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

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

He was. After a long and fretful 47 days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah well.

Too bad, right?

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

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

You’re Number 1 (… and so are YOU, and YOU and …)

Leave a reply

I’ve been paying close attention to the ubiquitous catchphrase “Millennials,” which refers to the new crop of young adults who will be entering the workforce and taking over for the tens of thousands of retiring baby boomers. Born between 1980 and 1995, it seems this group has had the dubious distinction of being coddled their entire life and has subsequently spent the last two decades hearing doting parents and teachers alike insist “You’re special!” and “You’re number one!”

Funny. It turns out if kids hear something like this long enoug,h kids tends to believe it: according to the grumblings this future working class apparently has little regard for authority and worse, a less than reverent approach to protocol and procedure. Look out people: when the Millennials take over, flip flops on Fridays will be the least of their demands.

I’m becoming increasingly interested in this subject for a couple of reasons. First off, my husband’s profession is smack-dab within employee recognition and – specifically – employee retention. This oncoming cattle rush of E-Bay employees willing to take their services to the highest bidder whenever something doesn’t go their way concerns a corporate America that relies heavily on longevity and loyalty. But that’s just him and his white collar world. My main motivation for concern lies in the significant fact that I am presently nurturing two creatures that fall into this well, coddled category: yep; teenagers.

For the record, I believe my kids are far from coddled. I’d like to think I’m doing my part to keep society sane because – get a load of this: I don’t give my kids whatever they ask for — but it turns out I’m not exactly the majority. Some days I feel as if I’m swimming against a tide of teenage entitlement because absurd entitlement abounds elsewhere in their lives.

On town ball fields my kids learned to play scoreless soccer. Seriously. Did it ever occur to anyone that if kids are old enough to understand the rules of a team sport… they might also be able to count the number of times a ball gets kicked into a net? And while official play books are manned and statistics are recorded during their little league games, nope, there’s no score kept there either. Everybody plays. Everybody runs around the bases. Everybody gets a big shiny trophy at the end of the season – just for participating. For real.

I recently attended a school concert which began with not one but four vocal solos in a row. None were outstanding. At first I thought it was me; perhaps my benchmarks for preteen warbling were unrealistic (damn that dreaded “American Idol”) or worse, perhaps I’m completely tone deaf from all my screaming about chores. When I casually looked around and saw other parents with pained, confused expressions, I knew it wasn’t just me. While it was uncomfortable enough to sit through, it was more mind-boggling when the reason became clear: those teenage girls were shamelessly standing alone at a microphone simply because they had asked to. No exceptional talent was required because really, everyoneone is talented, right?

My kids have stayed after school to “finish” taking tests. They’ve also taken a test and then have re-taken it again and again until the grade is acceptable to them. Whatever happened to “time’s up/pencils down”? And where were these teachers twenty-five years ago when I was taking my Calculus final?

It may not take a village but it’s certainly going to take more than just me to get things turned around here. If I’m willing to endure round-the-clock declarations of unfairness or continuous accusations of “worst mom ever” I’d like a little support from the trenches.

I don’t need Dr. Phil; I just need other parents (and maybe the occasional coach or music teacher) to band with me and tell these kids that real life provides rewards for hard work.

And it is NOT okay to return to our homes indefinitely once college is over (God help me).

And there IS something wrong with showing up late to work.

And by the power of Thor, flip flops are always going to be wrong, wrong, wrong in a cubicle.

For daily snark and snippets, follow Eyerollingmom on Facebook & Twitter!

The Other Other-Woman

Leave a reply

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 dammned – 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 the kids and silently pray that he comes to his senses and (cue in cheek-slap from Cher), snaps out of it.

I haven’t sat idly by, though, hand-wringing and despondent. With the situation seemingly out of 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.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and has been featured in HuffPost. 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