Tag Archives: Tina Drakakis

Evolution of a Daughter

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And then, in the blink of an eye, cancer.

Exhale.

You can only stand on the outskirts for so long before it grabs you in.  For first-timers, the words that are hurled from the onset are shattering.

“…tumors resting on three major veins…”

“…lesions on the brain…”

“…thirty percent…”

You find yourself gripped, nodding, stoically taking it all in (smartly, with a tape recorder going) and try to keep your composure because the last thing your mother – your rock – needs to witness is your own fear.

So you keep it together and let the world swish past you and do what you’re told.  See this oncologist.  Okay.  Go to this radiology appointment.  Got it.  Get to this surgeon.  Will do.

And before you know it you’ve spent a week – precious time in Cancerland – just preparing for battle.  You spend your afternoons watching endless episodes of Law & Order: SVU and Dr. Phil and Judge Judy (because that, my friends, is the routine of retired people).  But it’s okay.  You welcome the mindless and the mundane.  Much more happens in a week’s time.

You’ll start to hyperventilate in the middle of Kohl’s.  When you do, your friends’ words will get you through it.

Your husband will realize what an insanely difficult job you have as a mom and will appreciate you like never before.

Your teens – with cell phones attached to their bodies like extra appendages – won’t even text to see how things are because they are so afraid to know.

Your little boys – usually so wry and animated – will sound small – like little boys — on the phone.

You’ll wonder if you sent out your bills before you left but then you won’t even care.

 

In fact, you will brilliantly assess with unapologetic clarity that so, so many questions and worries in life  — actually, most of them — can be answered with a simple

“So what?”

 

Life throws curveballs.  We get that.

Miscarriage.  Infidelity.  Death.  Check, check, check.  Been there.  Done that.  Me, too.

 

We’re women.  We put on our big-girl panties and push up our sleeves and expertly deal with it.  We sniff out friends who will drop everything and listen.  We surround ourselves with other survivors and find strength.  And we get through.  There’s a shitload of wine.  And there’s an abundance lot of tears.  But we push through.  Because we’re women and that’s what we do.

 

Women are so incredibly strong about everything that Life – laughably – almost seems to come easy.  So Life keeps at it.  We are so unfathomably unbreakable that Life keeps hurling us zinger after zinger after zinger until finally —  eventually — it finds our Achilles Heel.  Life gives us children.

 

And then Life zings us agin because these children – the very beings that make us crazy for a very good portion of our lives – become the very pillars that we depend on down the road.

 

So at this exact moment I am a pillar of strength for the most important woman in the world to me.

 

 

(* reposted from 2011.  My mom passed a few months after this originally appeared.  Of course I still lean lean on my exceptional tribe of women and my adored brood of children for Life’s continuation of zingers because well, that’s the easy part.   xoxo)

 

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

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 11:  Click here:  https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/02/22/a-momoir-chapter-11-how-many-back-in-my-days-until-you-officially-morph-into-your-mom/

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And I didn’t pretend to understand it.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The other mother contacted me immediately.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Yeah.  We get that.  We do, too.

 

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

 

Yeah.  Same here.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Let it go.

 

Let it go?

 

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

 

But…..but….but…..

 

But nothing.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I just wish it had been yesterday.

 

*   *   * Update *   *   *

 

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

and print this …

her seventeen-year-old returned home.

It was a long 47 days.

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

when SHE was seventeen years old.

 

Exhale.

 

 

*  *  * (Updated) Update *  *  *

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

 

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

 

Just. Hang.  In.  There.

xoxo

 

 

 

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

 

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 11:  Click here:  https://tinadrakakis.com/2020/02/22/a-momoir-chapter-11-how-many-back-in-my-days-until-you-officially-morph-into-your-mom/

A Momoir, Chapter 11: How Many ‘Back in My Days…’ Until You Officially Morph into Your Mom?

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

 

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

 

These days my adult kids have their own array of big-kid problems now but again, it comes with the calendar. They’re drowning in debt, juggling student loans, and trying to make rent.  They’re realizing what a paycheck can cover and – more importantly — what it cannotDayum, life is expensive, they lament.  Yes, it is.  News flash: it always has been.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Add in the school shootings.

And the mean girls now emerging before second grade.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I don’t want to debate anti-vaxxers.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Holy Grail of Happiness (or The Best Thing About (Maybe) Moving)

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My husband & I decided to put our house on the market.

We don’t have to sell it but there was a time not too long ago that we almost did.  Our beloved perfect home came with a hefty price tag all those years ago and frankly, the mortgage is a big nut each month.  Always has been.  When my husband lost his job for a bit of time a couple of years ago, we watched in trepidation as that nut grew into an entire tree, leaning and inching closer to our heads and blocking out the sun with every week of a missing paycheck.  Going through financial duress while your kids are all going through college is not for the weak, trust me.

 

Things eventually turned around but that murky fear of what if they don’t really never has been forgotten.   It’s always simmering, bubbling beneath even the happiest of times.  So, while we’re in a stable place right now we decided to test the real estate waters and see if anyone else thinks this place is the bomb, too.  Besides, who doesn’t dream about downsizing?

 

We’ll soon see how that goes but that really isn’t my point in divulging this news.  Hell no.  Instead I am here to publicly proclaim that, because of this experience, I have discovered the Holy Grail of Happiness.  Are you ready?  Have you gathered ‘round closer?  Got your readers on?

 

I implore you to heed my next four words:

 

Throw. Out. Your. Shit.

 

I’m not even kidding; the results will astound you.

 

When we decided to unload our adored albatross we set up a five-month plan for ourselves:

 

Month 1: Purge.

We scheduled Goodwill pickups every month and got to work decluttering.  Heavenly gods of garbage, we had no idea how bad it was (truth:  one never does). We emptied out cabinets that were filled with glassware from our 1990 engagement party, plastic cups from every concert venue on the eastern seaboard and beer cozies from every pub giveaway ever grabbed (my gawd, there’s been a lot of beer in our lives and apparently it’s very important to keep it chilled at all times).   We gathered all the rarely used kitchen gadgets and duplicate cookware (sorry, five friends who once left behind a long-forgotten Pyrex pie plate, all have found another home) and threw them in the pile, too.   Banished were the bridal shower bedsheets and boxed up were the dusty dorm duvets.   It was a start.

 

Month 2: (Purge and) Patch.

We kept purging (sayonara, stacks of children’s books and outdated leather trench coats) but we also started repairing all the yuck.  You know yuck.  Yuck is all the nasty-ass things around your home that have become part of the scenery you’ve been ignoring for years.   We fixed the crack in in the ceiling we’ve stared at for more than a decade.  We patched up walls where little elbows had crashed through the years and smoothed plaster where ninja noggins had bounced.   We cleaned up the scuffs where tiny karate kicks had landed and continued to shell out piles of money to fix things no one would ever notice.  No lie, this sucked.  Like fixing your muffler.

 

Month 3: (Purge and Patch and) Paint.

Yes, of course we kept purging.  It became a Marie Kondo challenge of epic proportions, getting rid of cheerleading trophies and participation ribbons for any spelling bee, geography bee and instructional swim class my kids ever experienced.  Seriously, it was absolutely ridiculous. (You too, right?  WHYYYYYY???)   But now it was time to spruce things up.  We repainted the tired walls of handprints going up each staircase and touched up the bannisters to their original regal state.  We spiffed up the porch, the doors, the treads and the trim.  My husband then tossed together every forgotten partial gallon of paint that had been neglected in the basement and created a new color.   He rolled it onto the basement floor and gave it a crisp, clean facade.  My friend/realtor was impressed (a clean and organized basement tells potential buyers you take care of your things—who knew?) but my husband was merely on a mission to get those paint cans gone.

 

Month 4: (Purge and Patch and Paint and) Pack.

HELL YESSSSS we kept purging.  Why did I save every single report card from every single semester for every single kid?  Because we all do, that’s why.   While not as bad as some of my friends (I did not, like one, save baby teeth #gag), I duly saved everything else like most moms.  I carefully sorted through a filing cabinet of homemade Mother’s Day cards, second grade artwork, pediatrician growth forms, prom mementos and a plethora of keepsakes my now-adult children wouldn’t care to look at twice.  No joke:  it was incredibly hard tossing away all those sentiments of time flown but most of it was silly, even by mom standards.  We packed our most-cherished memories (no teeth) into meticulously labeled rubber totes and stacked them neatly in the basement (you know, on the nice painted floor).

 

Month 5: (Purge and Patch and Paint and Pack and) Prepare.

When all that was done (ahead of schedule – it really is amazing how addicted you become to Throwing.  Shit.  Out.)  we started staging the house.  In simpler terms this means eradicating all evidence that you ever actually lived there.  Spoiler alert: this was the toughest part.   Amazing and happy framed photos of my whole family adorn walls in every room of our home.  Even the bathroom.  To remove each one and carefully encase it in bubble wrap, not knowing when — or where —  it would come back out, was torture.  And it screamed of finality.  Wait.  Are we really doing this?  Are we sure?  Really?

 

Man, I hated that.

 

So now we wait.   We have no idea where we’ll go or what we’ll do if it does sell but I will say, the whole endeavor has given my better half & me a lot of opportunity to chat … and muse … and dream … and ponder what our next life adventure will be.   We’re in the second act of our sitcom life and it’s not such a bad thing having another common interest after 30-plus years together. We spend weekends creeping at Open Houses and put homes on our Please Wait for Us List … only to dutifully cross them out when they  get snatched up and move to our Ones That Got Away List.

 

It’s all good.

 

Even better, should others somehow not find our organized basement so appealing, we’ve already committed to a Plan B: unpacking some bubble wrap and staying put for a little while longer in our spit-shined, shit-free home. With this view.  Definitely not so bad.

 

dusk.jpg

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CARSON!!!

 

My daughter isn’t a complainer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Umm, paging the awkward police.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just One Page

boyz

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Committing to succeed small steps at a time.

 

Imagine that?

 

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

 

Y’all check back again soon, ya hear?

 

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

 

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

Today I start by doing what she suggested.

 

#   #   #   #

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Momoir, Chapter 9: Parenting Horrific Behavior. Would You Know? Could You?

us

Usually around this time of year I become a bit melancholy.  It’s not seasonal blues, like those stomach flutters that used to surface with the sounds of the late summer Levi’s commercial coming from the console.  This anniversary month of my mom’s passing always seems to bring intense reflection, like an internal clock tower that sounds bells alerting me that another year has passed without her.  As if I could forget.  Without fail, August always makes me think of what she’s been missing.  It also makes ponder how I’m doing as a mom.

 

While I’m typically a little subdued to begin with, this year in particular finds the universal mood not helping.  Still absorbing the recent dreadful news of multiple mass shootings at the hands of young adults, I then 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’”

 

What in the flying fkkkk is going on?

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

Missed the start of A Momoir? Catch up here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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