Tag Archives: Tina Drakakis

The Legend Of Lee: Grandpa Eggo Forever

Now that my step-father has passed away, I am parent-less. It very well may be that the idea of this is more unsettling than the actuality of it.

As many adult children will concur, when a parent is sick it is all consuming. Your own life becomes a secondary area of maintenance. You rely on spouses and friends and neighbors to ensure everyone is fed and transported while you tend to your beloved mom or dad or, in this case, step-dad (which puts a slightly different spin on things, which I’ll get to in a bit).

Illness, even while happening at a snail’s pace, oddly blurs through your life at a breakneck speed. But when illness has taken its ultimate toll and you’re done plowing through arrangements and funerals and logistics and planning … it’s still some time before you notice the finality of events.

Suddenly one day you’re no longer worrying about a sick parent. Or any parent. And it’s kind of a weird thing. As a parent, with parents, I had many roles. Now, not so much.

When you do focus on your family again you might notice – really notice – that your kids are taller, or your dog’s fatter or your home’s exterior paint looks pretty crappy. You can move forward and tend to things you hadn’t given much thought to in a long, long time.

It’s a new page in a new chapter.

And it startles me that the act of putting together photo boards for a wake makes me realize how few pictures I’ve actually taken the time to print out of late. Stupid smartphone.

The short story, still chock full of irony, is that my mom passed away almost three years ago, leaving behind her husband, my step-father – a man 20 years older, in failing health, and completely in the throes of elderly entitlement and negative outlook. He was pushing 90 at the time of her death and had lived the life of a quintessential old school husband – completely assuming that any female in the room might be happy to fix him a plate of food or gladly accept the wad of cash (his salary) that he’d hand over in exchange for taking care of him completely.

Saddled with the reality that he could no sooner walk to the mailbox than live alone, there was more than one occasion when my sister and I looked at each other with a “wtf?” glare of disbelief. My mother had a wicked sense of humor. (Well played, Mom, well played.) We took care of him from the minute she was gone and (with great patience) journeyed with him for two years, nine months and nine days until he was able to get to where he really wanted to be; back by her side.

He came into our lives while we were ensconced in adolescence, a knight in shining armor to a single mother of three children, and we treated him with the indifference any teenager might have. So long as he didn’t interfere with our Friday nights in the Burger King parking lot, what did we care who he was or what he did?

But what he did was nothing short of amazing.

He put my mother on a pedestal for more than 30 years. He taught us to drive. He absorbed every icy shout of “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” we could hurl. And with every infuriating and bigoted nuance of his personality (“…please stop calling them colored people, it’s been frowned upon for a long time now…”) we came to love him deeply.

He walked my sister and I down the aisle.

He was present for the births of 10 grandchildren.

He never gave up on the Mets.

He ate 4 Eggo waffles with his coffee every morning before 6am, securing the adored “Grandpa Eggo” into our vernacular for always.

And yes, with his nifty black glasses on, he resembled Carl Frederickson from the movie “UP.”

We will forever smile at that.

He was a kind and decent man and lived a full life with the woman of his dreams and a family that embraced him. I am not saddened that he’s gone because while putting on a brave face, he has been lost and aimless and miserable living in a world without my mom. But I can’t help but be a bit melancholy, though, because in times like these, our own mortality blazes in our minds.

Cheers to a man who brought smiles to so many.

And apologies to my children, who now have a mom that can fully devote every ounce of her attention on them … and their schoolwork … and the state of their bedrooms … and their behavior … and their curfews … and …

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!)

When it Comes to this Mothering Thing, Who’s Better at it: You or Your Mom?

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I never talked back to my parents. Yet my own kids talk back to me. A lot.

My children also raise their voices to me when they’re angry. Think back: would you ever?

Worse still, I often have to tell my spawn to do something multiple times — multiple times —because my continuous requests are repeatedly ignored. Can you even imagine?

As another Mother’s Day approaches I can’t help but reflect on how remarkably different I parent than my mother did. When I dig deep I have to admit: there are times I feel completely overrun by the people in my home that are less than half my age. I don’t think my own mother ever felt that way one day of her life. In fact, she wouldn’t put up with one minute of what I tolerate from my children.

Does that make me a worse mom than her?

In all fairness I should throw it out there that my kids are not rotten. Not in the least. And never have been. They were never the tantrum-throwing toddlers in the restaurant, or the give-a-pinch-when-a-grown-up’s-not-looking schoolyard brat or the current topic of conversation in the teachers’ lunchroom (didn’t know about that? oops, spillin’ secrets here). They happen to be the epitome of respectful individuals when out in the real world and are quite well liked. Actually, if I’m being completely honest I’d have to say they are, in fact, fairly boast-worthy children.

So why do they shit on me?

Usually after a particularly bad display of disrespect from one (or two, or three, or all four) of our kids, my husband and I will have conversations about this, scratching our heads (okay, maybe while downing beers). We question how in the world we got to be parents of children who easily display behavior that would’ve resulted in a swift backhand from any – and all – of our own parents.

We think back and remember the fear in our homes and the physical repercussions of any type of conduct unbecoming. It certainly wasn’t unusual back then. Actually, it was very, very typical. We all did what we were told – the first time – because it far surpassed the alternative of NOT doing so.

But there is no fear in my own home today. There is no apprehension for questioning or stating opinion or disagreeing. It gets loud, sure, and at times inappropriate, but no one’s ever hesitant about speaking up.

There are other blatant differences in my home now that speak volumes to how very different my parenting style is from my mom’s.

For instance, my kids talk to me way more than I ever talked to my mother at their ages – about cringe-worthy topics that would zap the frost straight out of my mom’s bouffant. Eighth grade girls doing decidedly un-eighth grade things in the way back of a bus on a school trip? Sixth grade classmates experimenting with drugs? You name it. Details are anted up without pause, over nightly bowls of pasta or during car rides to practice. Like, nothing. No big deal.

Also, my kids tell me they love me – all the time and for no particular reason. My first distinct memory of saying “I love you”— out loud — to my mom was from a payphone in the middle of a dormitory hallway during my freshman year in college. As I am forced to go through my third Mother’s Day (cough, now with this 2024 update, my thirteenth) without her, my heart still gets heavy when I think of this and my regret pains me. It was way, way too late in life to have started that.

No doubt about it, my kids are being raised in a different world entirely. My mother didn’t socialize with my friends’ parents. I would venture she didn’t know most of their names at all. She didn’t come to many school events and never checked to see if I was doing homework.

If I had to make a list, I’m pretty sure I’m involved in a gazillion more things with my four than my mom ever was for me.

Yet the loves of my loins – all of them – have moments of intolerable selfishness, insufferable self-absorption, whininess, rudeness and petulance. And – why hold back now — they occasionally swear.

So I do wonder: Who’s done a better job at this mothering thing, me or mine?

What do you think?

With all her failings, my mother’s love for me was ferocious and I knew that every day of my life. She raised kind, smart and capable children.

With my own failings, my love for my children is ferocious and they, too, know it every day of their lives.. I am raising kind, smart and capable children.

I’d say we both win this one.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us – the successful ones, the failing ones and the holding-on-for-dear-life ones. We got this.

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!)

Eyerollingmom’s Top Ten Truths of Motherhood

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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!

Desperately Seeking the Humor in Perfect(ly Flawed) Children

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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!)

All Hail the King

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My local friends witness my frenetic lifestyle firsthand, specifically, that my husband’s consulting job takes him out of state for three weeks each month. With the exception of weekends when he’s home, I have become adept at managing our homestead — and the people in it — in his absence.

Given the fact my youngest is eleven and can (kinda sorta) wipe his own behind, this is not an absurdly impossible feat. At least most of the time.

Nine parent teacher conferences in one night? No sweat.

Sports practices every evening? Got it.

Haircuts, homework, doctors, dentists and an occasional nightly meal? Supermom, present.

I’ll even see you volunteering as a CCD teacher and raise you lunch money to boot. No problem.

So it was with mild amusement (and perhaps teeny hidden contempt) that I would listen to my darling spouse talk over the phone lines about all his free time. With nobody to worry about but himself for 4-5 days, he was eating healthier, running more, keeping his recent weight-loss off. All good. Excellent, actually.

That’s great sweetie, I’d coo, before washing down the last of my Pop tart (dinner) with some Pinot (dessert).

Grrrrrrr……

Now, let’s be real here. I have rolled my eyes at this unbalanced lifestyle before — even (shockingly) written about it -– but I really do keep the matter light. As difficult as my days and night seem at times, I know his life out of a suitcase isn’t always fine wines and turn down service. (Rather, it better not be. Enter psycho wife if that ever surfaced…)

He works extremely hard and spends countless hours waiting in airports, missing important family occasions and playing catch-up on the days he’s finally home. It’s not easy, I will admit.

So imagine my surprise when my Traveling Wilbury arrived home one weekend and declared that our queen-size mattress was unacceptable and most intolerable and immediately had to be replaced with a king. Apparently after months of sleeping in hotels, he had stumbled onto the Holy Grail of wellness: in addition to healing his aching back, ailing knee and other middle-aged irritations, a bigger mattress would surely help him sleep better because well, he sleeps just great while away.

Diva Dad had spoken. I believe my Facebook status for that day read, “Sorry about Christmas, kids. Take all complaints to the big guy…”

Despite the fact we are not fancy people (point made by the bulky 19-inch television relic that’s still kicking in our bedroom), I shrugged and said sure. The practical side of me could list a slew of reasons why it made sense and the frugal side of me had a slew of coupons to rely on when it came time to pick out bedding.

So after nearly a quarter of a century inhaling each other’s less-than amorous sleep aromas … we have upgraded to an additional sixteen inches of slumbered bliss.

My husband & I will celebrate our 22^ndwedding anniversary in a few months. Sometimes we do things really, really badly.

Like the happy-hour-induced-hole in the sheetrock in my college apartment? Probably not our finest moment.

Or the humiliating $500 pyramid scheme bandwagon we jumped into in 1992? Seriously….. what dummies.

Even the two interstate moves in ten months (four kids in tow) for an oops career move? (Hindsight, that actually turned out pretty damn good in the long run but truth: who does that???)

But every once in a while we get something right.

The king-sized mattress is one of these times. Raising children in an environment where the Family Bed has been frowned upon? Definitely another one.

The best part: I’m only sharing it a portion of the time.

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Sleep Me off My Feet (PLEASE)

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When I was in college, you knew it was time to start getting ready to go out on Saturday night when my roommate, Theresa, exited the shower, walked across the apartment in her towel, and cranked up “Caribbean Queen.”

It was like a dog whistle.

Within minutes, bathrooms were bustling, Stiff Stuff was spraying and lips were lining (with precision).

And it was 10pm.

Nowadays, if 10pm rolls around you can be damn sure I am hoping my night is almost over. Why? Because I am freaking tired, that’s why.

I’m not exactly proud of it but I’m certainly not ashamed by it either because I know I am faaaaaar from alone. I want to sleep so badly but all my kids are at their rite-of-passage vampire stage so I’m outta luck. I have teens coming in later on weekends and that stinks. I have ‘tweens staying up later on weeknights and that stinks worse.

I know we all signed the (We’ll) Sleep (When We’re Dead) Contract when we became pregnant and that was all fine – back then. But for the love of God, was it signed in placenta fluid? Is there an expiration date?

Listen, I’m entitled to be a little cranky. I happen to be running this show alone now. My husband’s job keeps him out of town a lot and I must admit brag that I’ve gotten awfully good at keeping things afloat as a single parent. So long as everyone’s alright with egg sandwiches for dinner and a minimum of clean socks, I’d say this machine is running incredibly smoothly, thankyouverymuch.

But I have to be honest. I am beat, man. Throw in the Middle Age First Amendment (Thou Shalt Not Sleep Three Consecutive Hours Once One Hits 40 Years Old) and you are looking at an explosive yet very potential mixture of sleep deprivation and homicide.

I can’t be like my kids and catch up with sleep on Saturdays because come on, there are dogs to be walked and husbands to reconnect with over coffee and — you know – that litany of things on a never ending Weekend To Do List to tackle.

And forget lazy Sunday sleep-ins because let’s be real, we all know how those go: if you’re not where you’re supposed to be on Sunday mornings (cough, church) you’re definitely where you want to be (baseball/soccer/football field or well, a diner….) so THAT never works out either.

I suppose I could try sleeping a few hours as soon as I got home from work, waking up in time for dinner but — seriously, who can do that? Oh wait….that would be a high school senior, who naps, then effortlessly drinks coffee at nine to stay up for three more hours of homework. Screwy, right?

I think the greatest irony to this whole dilemma is that …

by the time all the chaos of kids and chores and commitments winds down …

… the Middle Age Second Amendment is suddenly upon on: Thou Shalt Not Sleep Past 5am. Ever.

Can I get a collective “Craaaaaaaaap…..” from all my tired sistas out there?

Eyerollingmom spews snark daily:

http://www.facebook.com/eyerollingmom

http://www.twitter.com/eyerollingmom

http://www.tinadrakakis.com

Happily Hangin’ with the Dirty Boys

When Bad Kids Happen to Good Parents

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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

(Too Much) Food for Thought

My Famous Friend (of a friend of a friend)

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I love a good friend of a friend celebrity connection.

My friend Linda posted a photo a while back. In the picture was her cousin with his lifelong best friend – who just happens to be David Axelrod (Barack Obama’s senior advisor at the time) — and well, Obama. She had great stories about her cousin: getting personal tours of the oval office (smaller than people imagine and – did we know Obama uses JFK’s old desk?) Once he went to a Wizards/Bulls game with the President and said the entire night was electric – when Obama walked into the arena it sounded like a rock concert.

Best friends with the president’s senior advisor. Now THAT is cool.

My husband’s buddy’s brother was in Animotion, that one-hit-wonder band of the 80s. Today, every time “(you are an) Obsession” comes on, my kids will crack up and shout “Hey, it’s Jerry’s brother!” (This should surprise no one; there is no world where my kids wouldn’t be schooled in iconic 80s music.)

My former boss had two sons who grew up with Jerry O’Connell, the chunky little kid from “Stand by Me” who is now a hunky TV and B-movie star. She told warm and wonderful stories all the time: Jerry grew up eating dinner at her house, getting in trouble with her boys and today they are all still friends. I love that. I know someone who knows Jerry O’Connell. I’ve heard so many stories about him I feel like I know him, too.

My father always told us about the time he dated Rosemary Clooney. As a kid it didn’t really register as anything fantastic but now I think, wow….

Knowing somebody famous is hugely different than just meeting somebody famous. And funny, aren’t we always in a wee bit of competition to have the best brag?

My sister was once asked to dance by Chad Lowe — brother of Rob — in some Hofstra bar (the only thing I find remotely interesting about this is that at this exact moment in time, hundreds of miles away on my own college campus I happened to have a poster up in my dorm room of his way hotter brother.)

My brother-in-law used to brag that he went to college with Meg Ryan (who was known as Peggy). Oooh, what was she like? Don’t know, never hung out with her. Fail. Fizzle. No points for that one.

Both memories combined made for meh musings but thankfully, together they’re raising children off to a way better start: in his freshman year my nephew became friends with Evan Springsteen. Yes, that one. I once received a very hushed and covert call from her, whispering from her basement, “Evan Springsteen is eating … MY MEATBALLS!” Huge props for that, sis. That totally redeems the Chad Lowe bit.

Here’s my one funny story: In my early professional life I once had to spend some time with a (C-list, not-even Dancing with the Stars worthy) celebrity who was promoting her memoir — a tell-all of her hidden struggle with alcoholism. It was my first book convention, it was in Vegas, and well, I was really (really) young.

Translated, “convention” means “unlimited free alcohol” to a twenty-something.

It was bad: I had gotten in from my night out only hours before her morning book signing. I am certain I still reeked and my head was spinning but I made it through the signing. I thought I was home free as I took my seat next to her at a luncheon but right in the middle of it she totally lost it.

She couldn’t take it anymore — in a diva-like moment, she furiously demanded that the dessert cake be sent back to the kitchen because she insisted she smelled liquor in it (“Ummm, no.., that would be … your publicist…”).

I wanted to die. Sweating (rather, seeping vodka fumes) I sat motionless and silent as the restaurant staff was severely admonished.

I guess it’s probably best that I don’t know too many famous people because hello, look where all my stories would end up.