Tag Archives: Tina Drakakis

“… ‘cuz when you’re fifteen …”

My little girl turns 15 today and I am (weirdly? surprisingly? vaklempt-ly?) emotional about it. I didn’t get this way with my firstborn (a son) and I imagine I won’t get this way with the younger boys either (because naturally I have confidence they will both reach every year of adolescence with a Nerf sword in hand). And my feelings have little to do with my daughter’s incessant request for a belly button ring. (An aside: I really don’t have an issue with this – call it admirable jealousy: I clearly didn’t have her cute figure when I was a freshman. Nope, she’s battling her dear ol’ dad on this one.) Yet I’m strangely flooded with pensive memories of the significance of this milestone.

Fifteen was a good year for me. My closest girlfriend at that age is still in my life today and hugely important to me. I make my daughter aware of this often. Fifteen was also the year my tender heart was broken for the very first time (oy vey, Adam Boyar), cementing my lifelong attraction to funny, Jewish guys (which clearly explains my utter enjoyment in Ben Stiller and Jon Stewart but curiously casts a light on my eventual choice in soul mate – a Greek/Puerto Rican/Catholic charmer…). Weird, but he can stay.

Still, everybody knows: fifteen today is waaaaay different than fifteen of then.

I feel for her.

I fear for her.

And I forever wish that her good sense remains unclouded when the rains fall and heartache beckons.

For her birthday, along with the designer sneakers and other items (that WILL be returned, I am sure of it) I got her something special. I commissioned a handmade pen and ink calligraphy of her favorite song, “Fifteen” by Taylor Swift. It is a song I am unable to listen to in its entirety without tearing up (“…..and Abigail gave everything she had to a boy…who changed his mind…”). It was meticulously crafted onto pale pink parchment paper and was framed to match her bedroom. It is beautiful.

And taped to the back of it is a card from the artist – my best friend at fifteen – who devilishly inserted a photo of the two of us, arms entwined, from 1981.

Proof that true friendships last.

Proof that strong beautiful teenaged girls survive fifteen.

Proof that even though tempers flare and hatred is hurled, our moms are always, always, always going to love us. And cry at songs that remind us of being a girl.

Happy Birthday, my sassy, sharp, and stunning Carson. You are the light in my life (and one day you’re going to laugh when you find out your dad has nicknamed you “The Fury” during this oh-so-fun time in your life).

2014 Update: Fours years later, my lady, my love, is a college sophomore today. She survived fifteen with grace and wisdom that carried her through sixteen, then seventeen, and eighteen and finally nineteen years old. She surprised me with an impromptu visit from college tonight — her first time home since August. I am happy beyond words and — apparently — feeling a little nostalgic. xoxo

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!)

Forever & Always: an 80s Kinda Gal

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I have to admit (though if my kids were to miraculously start reading my blog I’d feign dementia) that as hip as I am (that’s right) I am, at times, well, a little lame. In fact, I’m actually all sorts of lame for a variety of reasons.

For starters, I totally fake my way through the French words in “Lady Marmalade.” I know….seriously. (Hypocrite lame?)

I am vain to a fault, having worn lipstick through four childbirths (a subtle mauve) and also popped every blood vessel in my eyes because I made sure my contacts were in, too. (Insecure lame?)

I have never seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” (Uncool lame?)

I think tattoos are a really bad idea on most body parts (unless you’re planning on being perpetually nineteen and skinny … then I stand corrected). (Judgemental — or jealous — lame?)

I can’t text without using proper punctuation (naturally it takes me five times longer because finding the apostrophes is always troublesome). (Grammar Nazi lame?)

I loathe baking. The only reason I even own a rolling pin is because one holiday season a neighbor creatively attached one to an invitation to a cookie swap and stuck it in my mailbox (of course prompting my immediate response What the hell is a cookie swap?) (Lazy lame?)

But perhaps my lamest admission is that I really (really) heart the 80s. (Aqua Net lame?) I spent my adolescence, my college years and my Melanie-Griffith-Working-Girl stage in that decade so who can blame me? John Hughes movies, white zinfandel pinkish-pretend wine, grocery shopping in track suits … (oh wait, maybe that last thing was just Long Island …). It was just a funny time – so big and brash and booming. The best.

Lately my friend Theresa and I have been debating the Worst. Song. Ever. Whenever we think of one we text it to each other (properly punctuated on my end). So, while I’m sitting at the Macaroni Grill and my phone beeps, I’ll look down and all I’ll see is “Raspberry Beret.”

I crack up.

And when she’s waiting at a practice field, her phone lights up and displays “99 Luftballoons.”

It’s been going on for a couple of months now and I’ve just realized that all of the songs we’ve been using are 80s tunes.

“Eye of the Tiger”

“China Girl”

“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” (my God, I think I just threw up a little in mouth just typing that one)

“(I’m Only) Human” (man, I hate that one)

“Shy, Shy” (funny: just texting the name Kajagoogoo alone is worth sending…)

Still good stuff.

Just some really (really) lame music.

And it was all played a couple of weeks ago at my high school reunion (I can’t even begin to go there yet because I’m still processing the visuals from it).

Maybe soon though.

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and was just featured 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. –

About A(nother) Boy

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What? You want to know about my kid — your student? Pffft. You don’t have to ask twice.

I’ve been waiting for this homework assignment. And — since I already bared all about the other kid in a previous post — parenting rule #16 dictates I must now provide equal billing here.

When asked to “Tell About My Scholar” in a million words or less, here’s what I said to enlighten my son’s seventh grade math teacher:

Now that we’re a couple of weeks into the school year, it is likely Trevor has already charmed you. I am here to explain why.

Sure, there are the usual reasons: Affable? Compassionate? Kind? Check, check, check. But his natural tendency to be an all-around nice kid comes from a darker place. He’s actually making up for lost time. The truth is, he spent the first two years of his life crying miserably and awoke from every slumber angry and screaming and ready to rumble. No one ever knew why. It was almost as if he knew from the start he’d have an uphill battle for attention as the youngest of four children and wanted to make sure we all knew he was around. He’s been working that playbook ever since.

Even today when he fights with his siblings, he is the loudest. It’s actually kind of amusing. For certain you will witness none of this ridiculous behavior in your classroom, because he is the middle school Clark Kent of secret personas.

So yes, he’s a super awesome kid but he carries around this deep dark secret. It’s true; we have proof (ask him to tell you about “the picture” that one of his teachers kept on her desk for a while last year). I just felt you should know. If you ever have a student in need of a friend, Trevor’s your man. If there’s a task you need help with, he’ll be the first to offer. And unlike his brothers that came before him, he actually tells us about his school day. We’ll hear all the good, the bad, and the ugly algebraic equations that are kicking his tail (again, this constant chatter at home is simply a constant reminder that he is, well, around. Nothing more).

According to his stats, he is presently the only breathing middle schooler without a smartphone. If he doesn’t do well in your class , he knows this sad, sad statistic will not change for him. I imagine because of this he’ll work extremely hard in your class. (Fun fact: he did get a perfect score on his third grade Math MCAS … this keeps him on the Scholastic Leaderboard of Competition we keep on our kids but hello, third grade? — this star is losing its luster and he knows it).

I hope you enjoy Trevor as much as we do (you know, on his good days). He’s got a great sense of humor and a winning disposition. He’s one of our favorites but we’ll never, ever tell him.

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!)

About a Boy

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(Unfathomable update: the *boy in this tale is in his mid-twenties now. BRB – gotta go turn to melancholic dust …..)

I had a pretty awesome “homework” assignment last night for the first week of school. One of my son’s teachers asked for an essay – “in a million words or less” – describing our child, our “scholar.” This was a seventh grade Math teacher and it struck me as brilliant for a couple of reasons.

First off, it’s seventh grade Math. Yawwwwwn. How much compelling personal interaction could possibly go down in a typical math class? In a 43-minute Algebra lesson with so much material and so many learning types to master, could there ever be any time for group anecdotes about weekend cookouts or opinions of the latest Adam Sandler movie? Mmmmm, doubtful.

Second, this particular son of mine is that kid – the fairly quiet student who laughs at the class clowns, and perhaps secretly strives to be one. I have no doubt his teachers don’t get an inkling of his true personality until after Christmas break.

So she wanted to know who her students are and blew right past the requisite fill out this questionnaire routine. Another hidden agenda of brilliance: how telling to hear the actual voices of parents. Who’s a braggart… who’s a worry-wart… who’s incapable of decoding their, they’re and there? I just thought it was great.

So off I went and had some fun. I just hope he had the kahunas to hand it in. It’s (naturally) extra-credit and we recently had checked off our “You-will-do-any-and-every-extra-credit-offered-to-you-because-you’re-a-dummy-if-you-don’t” discussion. We’ll see.
I hope his Math teacher has a sense of humor. Here it is:

There’s a lot you should know about my scholar Luke …..although much of it would make him turn six shades of crimson and want to crawl into his desk.

That little conundrum leaves me with little to reveal.

I guess he wouldn’t mind if I told you that I believe he’s a sharp lil’ whippersnapper, with his Mom’s love of humor and his Dad’s love of sports (because to Luke, ESPN really stands for Every Sport Possible No-lie-will-be-watched-on-every-television-set-at-all-times).

Luke won’t give you any trouble and certainly won’t be to blame for any nonsense that might arise within your classroom (because anything that happens will likely be his younger brother’s fault. Really. Go ahead, ask him.)

My scholar is a reflective kid, usually just observing the world around him, taking it all in, and keeping a lot of notes. He “gets” it.

He knows the words to every song on the radio.

Won’t talk to his mother about girls.

And is extremely well-liked (and that’s not just his mom talking).

(Caution: Do not tell him this. He already thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips, so in this house, we try to keep the compliments to a minimum.)

In general, I think you will thoroughly enjoy having him in your class. We kinda like having him around here, too. Especially on the days when he showers – then he smells realllllllllllll nice. (Actually, if I’m being truthful, I guess I have to mention that he showers every day. That’s a good thing for 7^thgraders, right? In fact, he showers so much that he’s almost at the 40-minute-shower stage of adolescence that starts peeling paint off the walls. So, he’s right on track. It’s all good.)

He’ll stay under your radar ….

….. and chuckle at the jokes that go over everyone else’s heads…….

Have fun with our scholar – we certainly do.

Kid-Free Vacations: Parenting Guilt or Brilliance?

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I just returned from a short vacation, not only without the kids, but – for the very first time – having left them home alone without adult supervision. Before the speed dialers hit the DSS hotline, I guess I should point out that 50% of my dependents are, in fact, (cough) adults. Well, per their official *paperwork, sure they are. Legally I was good.

Quasi-adults or not, I’m not going to say it was without stress. Quite the contrary, in the days leading up to our departure I think my hair started falling out more than normal and a queasiness in my belly was brewing. Graphic headlines taunted my dreams: Selfish Parents Perish in Plane Crash … Kids Left Alone Arrested for Stealing Snacks, Claim Partying Parents Left No Food … Party House Sees $20k in Damages for Negligent Owners.

Good God. What was I thinking?

For the record, I challenge my husband frequently on daily matters both vital and trivial – you name it, I will argue it: parenting issues, furniture-placement, even which appetizers to order in restaurants. But when he was doing his best to convince me of a solo jaunt more than six months ago, well, it didn’t feel like much of a fighting matter because there seemed to be more pros than cons. We’d gotten a super cheap deal on both lodging and flights, our eldest would be turning 21 by summer’s end, and the remaining 3 were primarily self-sufficient (bathroom hygiene notwithstanding but I imagine with teenagers that issue won’t be disappearing anytime soon). Besides, our neighborhood watch is stellar and my kids knew it: my phone would rival the Batphone should any shenanigans arise.

But six months came quickly and by the time I should’ve started packing, I still wasn’t so sure I was comfortable with the decision.

“Maybe we should rethink?” I asked, my eyes landing on a yogurt container under the couch.

“My parents left me alone for a week when I was a junior in high school,” my husband countered. Ahhh. The ol’ Unsupervised ’80s defense. Lucky to be alive myself after that era, he was definitely not helping.

So I busied myself doing everything in my power to lessen any problems that might arise. I cooked for days, typed and retyped a multitude of lists, texted every neighbor within earshot of my address and threatened every one of my kids with their own personal Achilles Heel of punishment. If Project X was going to happen in my absence, everyone’s livelihoods were going down, one body at a time, dammit. It would be a race to the rat-out of epic proportion.

So we grabbed a couple of friends who like us, never came across a Happy Hour they couldn’t enjoy, and hopped over to Myrtle Beach for three days.

Now, Myrtle Beach is a fine and lovely place. It is also – in the middle of August – like lounging on the sun (hence their need for Happy Hours in South Carolina.)

And three days isn’t a particularly long time – especially when you’re on the clock of Only Got Three Days! – but hitting the ground running upon arrival helps.

We sat our sleep deprived selves in one beach chair after another (by day) and one bar stool after another (by night) and amassed some pretty memorable laughs in a mere 72 hours.

The kids called every so often and only one questioning text came in from the neighborhood watch. When I realized the house wasn’t going up in flames and no one seemed to be killing each other I had to (popular song reference ahead) let it go.

We had a rental car but we jumped into nightly cabs regardless to do our part to be responsible. Turns out, my kids were doing theirs.

When we arrived back my daughter (19) audibly sighed with relief when she got in from work. “I am sooo glad you’re home,” she said, slumping down on the couch with me. Awwwww, poor thing. This responsibility thing is exhausting, isn’t it?

My middle son (15) couldn’t wait to show me something cool.

“Mom, come here, check this out.” He was giddy.

He tapped the centerpiece fruit bowl, which contained a frightfully blackened banana and what appeared to be a couple of apples from the Clinton administration. Three thousand fruit flies shot up and swarmed crazily above it.

Super. Guess they found a new place to hang when the yogurt was taken over by ants?

Note to self: “Throw out rotting fruit” needs to get typed onto a list next time.

Who am I kidding – I’m not sure if or when there’ll be a next time. I’m fairly certain none of them even looked at my lists.

Besides, I need to wait until my hair starts growing back in before even thinking about it.

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!)

Cancun Can(‘t) Do

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Just visited Cancun for the first time this summer. Couple of friends, no kids and unlimited food and booze. As a bonus, a mildly-middle-aged (or, in-denial-about-it) gal like myself can feel pretty good about herself lounging around a pool with a bunch of confident Europeans, known globally for letting it all hang out. It was a rather delightful self-esteem boost.

A not so delightful self esteem boost: going out to a club one night. Clearly this decision should have been filed under “what were we thinking” the minute we found out the van was departing our resort for the club at 11:30. That’s pm. Still, we threw our shoulders back and crammed into that un-air-conditioned death mobile with reckless abandon. (”We’ll sleep when we’re dead!” became our vacation mantra.)

We were determined. Determined to actually ACT they way we FEEL. Determined to keep up with the hip twenty-somethings that were (inexplicably) hanging with us all week. Determined to return home to our kids with wild-n-crazy Mexican adventures.

After our eyes adjusted to the strobes, we made our way single-file (connected, chain-gang-like) past hordes of gyrating, thrusting, heaving, puking, sobbing, screeching teenagers (ahh…right…the drinking age is eighteen in Mexico). We huddled together in our resort-appointed table and stared. It was like an MTV marathon without commercials. I made the decision right there that my children would never, ever visit Cancun (or any other Caribbean island) until their honeymoons (Natallee Holloway anyone? Yeah, STILL freaks me out…).

We left before the wet-tee-shirt contest concluded, making our way to the exit past the authentic boxing ring that had been brought in for it. We’d heard that this club’s big finale culminated with the roof opening and “rain” pouring onto the dance floor. Excellent. Wet-tee-shirts for everyone.

No thanks, we were done. We were going to get our mildly-middle-aged-or-in-denial-about-it asses back to bed because we had a big day starting in a few hours.

Tequila volleyball began at noon.

How Long is 3 Years? Any Mom Can Tell You

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I lost my mom three years ago today and began marking the anniversary of her passing with some reflections about passing – time passing, that is. Most people don’t notice time passing in any given day but Moms certainly do.

Moms get it. We get it when we look down at our 8^th graders and see hairy man legs. Even though we’ve seen that gangly leg a zillion times it still halts our heartbeat for a second when we, you know, really see it.

We notice time passing when our 10^th graders start sporting sideburns and facial hair and we realize we never even saw it coming. One day it’s just, well, there. When did that start? we wonder. Geeze, we’d focused so intently on the deepening voice …

When the summer days start getting shorter moms become aware of time when our college coeds start gathering their things again. Already? Really? We watched them whizzing around for a few weeks, burning the candle at both ends (a mirror image of ourselves so many years ago) and then poof, they’re gone again.

We moms also give a knowing nod to the slow passage of time when our oldest children – kinda sorta adults in the making — start paving their own paths through life with or without our gentle suggestions. Having to watch mistakes being made — then figured out — oddly enough causes time to stall a bit (insert nervous laughter from parents living with young adults).

It’s pretty easy to see how moms become acutely aware of time.

This past weekend a big group of friends and I took a ferry over to Provincetown and spent a spectacular summer day carousing in the sunshine (and, okay, perhaps a few bars, too). It was a stunning day yet I had tiny moments of sadness throughout it because it dawned on me: the last time we all did this together was exactly three years ago. I know this so well because it was the one lone day of fun I experienced that summer before spiraling down the heinous rabbit hole that was my mom’s cancer.

I used to phone her on the weekends to catch up, telling her all about the kids’ games or what I bought on sale that afternoon or any frolicking I’d done with my zany friends. Sometimes I’d just pour a glass of wine and shoot the shit with her. She’d always turn down the volume on the Law and Order episode in the background and listen happily as I went on and on, blissfully content in the animated updates of my life with her beloved grandkids

That last ferry outing is seared into my memory because when I phoned her that evening to tell her all about it, for the very first time she was unable to keep up her end of our conversation. She was frail and whispering and I remember hanging up and sobbing. I knew: she was fading away from me. Our special phone thing was never going to happen again. Within days I was back with her in New York, where I didn’t leave until her horrific ordeal was over, just weeks later.

I remember every moment of our final phone conversation.

156 weeks have flashed by and still my maternal awareness of time flares at the most unexpected times.

Today, the dynamic of my family is dramatically different than it used to be three years ago. Now a household of teenagers and young adults, it is, if I’m being honest, a much lonelier place for me. Mind you, it’s not a sad place – quite the contrary – it’s busier than ever and full of laughs (ahem, hilarious at times) and as chaotic as any other family of six usually is. But as Dorothy Gale once said, “People come and go so quickly around here.” That tends to happen in a household of primarily self-sufficient bodies. Work schedules, college distance, school events, social commitments, you name it. Family dinners are a rare occurrence now and more often than not there are nowhere near six people under the roof at any given time.

Everyone’s so busy they’re hardly ever here anymore.

So sometimes it just gets a little lonely when I remember about that pesky – and fleeting – time thing.

It makes me appreciate car rides. And conversations. And calendar pages with few markings on them.

And it makes me feel wickedly sneaky frying bacon for the sole purpose of waking teenage boys out of weekend slumbers.

And it makes me acutely aware that small moments are very, very good.

And — without question — it makes me vow that forever … if I happen to get a phone call from one of my loves that is afar … I will turn down the volume of Law & Order and listen up.

And be very, very happy.

Just the way my mom was.

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!)

A Momoir, Chapter 21: College Bound – Gone Like a Freight Train

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“She (we gave her most of our lives)

Is leaving (sacrificed most of our lives)

home.” — The Beatles

“She’s gone, I’d better learn how to face it.

She’s gone, I’d pay the devil to replace her.” — Hall and Oates

“Gone like a freight train.” — Montgomery Gentry

The girl has left the building.

Off to her tenth floor dorm room in the most congested section of her rolling and rural D1 campus. There might be more occupants on her floor than were in her graduating class.

She is stoked, on her way to change the world and no one – no one – who knows her is surprised.

She spent her last summer here like a ghost. Working around the clock with her three jobs, I’d sometimes go a couple of days with only the smell of her shampoo whizzing past me.

She was a blur.

Looking back I realize it was probably the world’s cosmic balance that did this, forcing me to get used to her not being around.

She’s been restless on her journey out of adolescence and that restlessness had been swelling at a NASCAR pace. By the time the last of the graduation party fire pits had smoldered she was done with her insignificant, small town.

I get that (she is her mother’s daughter after all).

I waited a couple days after we dropped her off before venturing into her room. To be completely honest, I could’ve gone in with a steam cleaner or a backhoe (cue in knowing nod from every mother of a teenage daughter). It was baaaaaad. I had bitten my tongue the last few weeks of summer because I just wanted a nice, argument-free send off. It was stressful enough just getting to departure day so I let the room go into zombie apocalypse/Area 51 locale.

Still, as the hours ticked away on her final night at home, I could tell her anxiety was revving — as witnessed by the psychotic and shrill “WHERE’S MY INSURANCE CARD???? (and then, ten minutes later, barely audible), Oh, here it is…”

That happened a few times.

She left in a breathless whir of excitement and anticipation for a new chapter and it was everything the books say it should be: melancholy, bittersweet, and (far be it for me to lie) a little bit of can’t-wait on both of our behalves.

I sent my oldest son off to the Air Force Reserves a couple of years ago so this certainly isn’t my first rodeo of shipping a kid off. With him it was different, though. Where she is restless, he was reckless. Seriously, I never slept so well as the day he was safely nestled in boot camp (cue in knowing nod of every mom of a reckless teenage boy). So I know a thing or two about missing my kids.

I find myself being so genuinely excited for her I don’t miss her as painfully as I thought I would. She checks in often enough (way more than she did while she was here full time) she’s providing more detail about her experiences than even asked for, and basking in the pretend-grown-up-lifestyle that she’s been so desperately craving. (To be clear, I am fully aware this will come back to kick me in the arse when she returns for winter and summer breaks. I know the Rules? What is this notion of rules you speak of? litigation is percolating. For sure, good times are a-comin’…

So while she’s gone I will wait patiently for her next call or text, and savor each tiny daily victory that finds me NOT rushing around like a madwoman each morning looking for my comb … or cream … or mascara … or beige sandals with the cork heels (why look for them when they are without question in her dorm room?).

For the time being there are no wet towels on her floor.

… yet I don’t have anyone to watch “Rock of Ages” with each and every time I find it on cable.

… and my heart feels a little pinging sensation when I realize – with surprising sadness – that I don’t have to special order a vegetarian dish when we order take-out.

… and I am decidedly NOT smelling expensive shampoo so much (Old Spice and Axe, yes. Herbal Essence? Nope.)

But I know she is only gone for a while.

And I miss her. A lot.

As I was wrapping up this piece another text from her came through which read simply,

“I miss you guys.”

See that?

Maybe all that Lunatic-Fringe-Psycho-Mom-Get-Me-Outta-Here stuff isn’t brimming on the surface anymore.

Maybe she heard an 80s song from “Rock of Ages” and thought of me.

Maybe after getting my picture text, she’s a little excited to sleep in her clean room at Thanksgiving.

No matter the reason. You know I’m saving the text.

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!)

One Year Gone

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My mom died a year ago today.

I’ve written – briefly — about some of that journey but have mostly focused on all the beautiful friends that buoyed me afloat during that time. But to write about the experience as it affected my core? No. To quote a colleague who went through a similar ordeal just a few years before me, “Nope, can’t even go there yet. Cannot go there.” I understood it completely and still do. There are no words yet.

A lot can happen in a year’s time. Hell, a lot can happen in half a year’s time, as witnessed by the soul splintering timeline of my mom’s final six months.

To honor this subdued – yet utterly important and significant – anniversary I can reveal what I’ve learned about calendar years.

In one whole year you can witness your 17-year-old son become 18 by making a conscious and physical decision to leave behind the poor choices that saddened his mother so. You can watch him become a responsible man right before your very eyes and question why you ever doubted him.

In a year’s time you can watch your 16-year-old daughter become 17 by navigating relationships (relationships that seem to desperately define adolescence) with the grace and maturity of a woman far beyond her years. You can think that she couldn’t possibly become any more beautiful with each passing month. But you would be wrong.

In 365 days you would believe it is a devilish trick of the eye that has caused your 12-year-old’s shoe size to surpass that of his father as he reaches 13 years old. To share this fact with him, you could look up to tell him, for he now leans down to kiss you. This will make you amused. And melancholy.

In a calendar year you can observe your baby – for he will always be your baby – blossom from 10-years-old into an even more likable, adored, and sought-after pain in the butt 11-year-old (have I mentioned he’s the youngest?). You will realize that his personality is emblazoned from seeing – and hearing – more than his siblings did at this age. For this, you will continue to shield him from their merciless taunts, so that forever they will think you are favoring him.

Throughout the 52 weeks you can ascertain that life most definitely is NOT fair, nor is it supposed to be. My sister and I now shoulder the responsibility of caring for our 90-year-old step-father. That he has survived four strokes, emphysema, open heart surgery, a pig valve AND was 20 years senior to my mom will only bolster this concept.

In twelve months you can gain immeasurable wisdom about what is important in life. You can evaluate friendships with a keen eye: assess which ones are fulfilling, which are frivolous, and which are insufficient.

You can – and will – enjoy simpler things, and quiet moments,

You can – and will – laugh (please see above mentioned reference to 90-year-old man).

I used to pray. Now I just speak directly to my mom and I know she hears me. I am convinced that last month, before my little leaguer hit his very first home run of his life, it was my incessant and silent pleas to her that helped this ball over the fence. “Come-on-mom, come-on-mom, help-him-out-mom, come-on-mom, help-him-do-this mom …”

She did. And I think she’s done a lot for us this year. Jobs, health, happiness, you name it. I’ve named it: mom.

I miss her.

I miss just talking to her.

And she missed some pretty great things this year.

Of course she really didn’t miss them. We just missed her joyful reaction to them.

So as we’ve gotten through our calendar year of firsts — her birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, her anniversary, and – the worst — her 10 grandchildren’s birthdays, when their customary $25 arrived with only one signature on the card – we’ve always toasted her.

And we will today, too.

Because no one is laughing more than her right now at the three-ring circus she’s left behind (please see above reference to 90-year-old man). Without a doubt in my mind, she is laughing her ass off right now.

Love you, Mom.

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

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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