Tag Archives: Tina Drakakis

Do(uche) We Really Need to Discuss This Now?

All I remember is that it started with sperm. There I was, frying up some egg sandwiches and before I knew what was happening, there were giggles and roars and it dawned on me that the boys were using the word sperm in their banter. Third and fifth grade. Terrific. The thing is, I probably should’ve seen it coming – just last week one came in to rat on the other that he’d just been accused of having a mangina (you know, instead of a manhood).

Joyous.

I took a breath. I can do this, I thought. I’ve done it before. A couple of years ago while driving around with my then-fifteen-year-old he referred to someone as a douche bag. (Flash-forward to today and this word has appallingly become part of the teenage vernacular, used in movies and television and sooooo not a big deal. But back then it was merely on the horizon and I was aiming to halt it.) In the best smart-ass-y voice I could muster, I asked,

“Hey, do you even know what a douche bag is?”

“No.” was his shrugged response.

“Well,” I started cheerfully, “it’s actually a bag of cleaning fluid a woman squishes up into her vagina to clean it out.” Cue in wide grin. “Cool, huh?”

He would’ve jumped out the car window had he not been temporarily struck by mortification paralysis. But I think it went well: I never heard the word come out of his mouth again.

So apparently here was my déjà vu. I had to dish out some more blunt, in-your-face reality but I was ready. I was the master. This was going to be cake. Plus, as an added bonus, I had BOTH of them right there – I wasn’t going to have to go through this twice. I looked at the two of them and began.

What I said was, “Do you even know what sperm is?”

What they heard was, “Release the Kraken!”

I spent the next twenty minutes fielding their questions…. and then extinguishing their subsequent fits of laughter at my responses. When they weren’t falling off the counter stools in hysterics they were squealing at situations and scenarios only little boy brains conjure up – mostly imagery involving hot dogs.

Good God. All this and an explanation of porn before ten in the morning.

I did my best, answered truthfully and stressed the seriousness of taking all private matters well, seriously. It’s a tough paradigm shift: Kids are exposed to so much junk in such comedic ways it’s no wonder they think every sexual scenario is out of a “Superbad” movie.

Chivalry may be dead but now modesty is on a respirator. Good times for kids.

So it was a morning for the books. And — reward for Mom getting through it — an evening for Bud Light.

For the record, the discussion didn’t end at the kitchen counter. My husband found a reason to grab my 10-year-old for a Sunday car ride and got through a much needed follow-up-father-son discussion without the added distraction of a younger brother (or – cringe — food references).

And alas, before the weekend came to a close, that crazy karma came sniffing around again.

“Mom, I have a question…..” My son’s voice trailed off when he noticed his brother within hearing distance. I gently inquired if it was a question which might be best asked in private. “I don’t know… I just don’t understand a word.”

“It’s okay, just ask.”

“What does douche mean?”

Baaaaahhhhhh!

I straightened my shoulders and flipped my hair.

I got this.

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!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Other Other-Woman

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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 dammned – they came through. So far, for an entire month. Well alrighty then. Interesting bunch, those teenagers.

The other mother contacted me immediately.

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

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

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

Yeah. We get that. We do, too.

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

Yeah. Same here.

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

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

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

Let it go.

Let it go?

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

But…..but….but…..

But nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just wish it had been yesterday.

* * * *

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

…and print this…..

…her seventeen-year-old returned home.

It was a long 47 days.

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

… when SHE was seventeen years old.

Exhale.

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

Friendvy

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One of my very best friends just received a tremendous promotion, catapulting her into a very high, very-six-figure salary range. I learned of this after she tossed me a perfect size-six pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps that she’d just received as a Christmas present from her boss.

“Here, take these, she bought the wrong size and I’m too embarrassed to tell her.”

While I inwardly chuckled at the thought of vacuuming in them – because really, where was I going in them? – I couldn’t help but notice the card of the Neiman Marcus personal shopper still in the box. Obviously had she returned them her boss would never have known. Hmmm…was I to suspect a little pity-present was happening here?

While I love her and couldn’t be more thrilled for her, it’s no surprise that such great news has caused me to reflect on my own personal state of affairs. Professionally, we worked together for a number of years (okay, truthfully, I hired her). Socially, we did happy hours. A lot. When I left our profession to begin raising a family she was beneath my middle management level, but in the past few years her ascent up the ladder has been both exciting and troublesome for me. My feelings fluctuate between “You go girl!” and “Hey, wait a minute, couldn’t that – shouldn’t that – be me?”

Making the decision to become a stay-at-home mother is one of toughest choices any woman will ever have to make, and granted, it isn’t for everyone. But standing by and watching a former colleague crash through the glass ceiling is pretty profound by any standards.

Foregoing a corporate career is not something I regret, but there are some amenities that I miss occasionally. Recognition is the biggie. I take my job very seriously and may do it exceptionally (er, most days), but not much gets noticed on a daily basis. On my best days, beds get made, kids get fed and I’m wearing make-up. On my worst, bills get paid (really) late, yesterday’s make-up will do, and there’s cereal for dinner. With reactions like “Captain Crunch? Cool!” my family clearly does not differentiate between my stellar or stinking days. There’s no promotion waiting down the pike for me, and no one’s going to take me out to lunch for acing the vomit virus that befell my toddler throughout the night.

It is a bitter, bitter pill that is swallowed each and every day. And there are constant daily reminders that the playing field is uneven. Routine phone calls from my husband throughout the day can set me off: out of nowhere I will suddenly become incensed that I must pick up his dry cleaning or bring in the garbage cans from the street. Do it yourself, dammit! I want to scream. Or during the course of midday check-in if I’m asked what I’ve been doing all morning I will stifle the urge to erupt into sarcasm (Scrubbing the effin’ toilets— what else would I be doing with a master’s degree?)

I am certainly not the first woman to question a life choice and I’ll be far from the last to complain about it. But as each year passes I just can’t help but feel the pangs of jealousy and insecurity bubble within me when the passing calendar months seem to mock me: Hello, February! As of today, you have now been home exactly the amount of years you commuted to work. Or worse, Greetings April, at the start of next week you have officially been OUT of work twice as long as you were actually IN work. Still worse, Happy Birthday August, now that your oldest child is a teenager, the suits in the back of your closet will forever be Halloween costumes.

Envy comes and goes for me. Some days I want to be thinner, blonder, tanner, healthier, even more organized than a friend appears. But some days I don’t care about any of that stuff at all. For the most part I am confident and self-assured. Why is it, then, that I always seem to care about my worth? And why must my worth be measured in terms of a fat paycheck or a great designer suit? That alone angers me more than being asked to make a meatloaf.

Not surprisingly, all my driving from schools to doctors to playing fields to play dates certainly allows time for introspection, and I believe a little jealousy is healthy for friends. It offers opportunities for genuine wake-up calls. While my friend’s lawn is looking rather lush right now, reflection has a way of putting things into perspective. When she tells me how much her heart hurts because she hasn’t seen her baby boy in two days because of work, I believe her completely because I know. And when I nonchalantly remark that I’m really not that busy with four kids and would love to take on some freelance work to help her out if she’s swamped, she pretends not to hear the desperation in my voice because she knows, too. Friends have that way of knowing.

Trading in my blue jeans for nicer clothes would be great, and finally having some disposable income would be even greater. But would I trade in my so-old- I-can’t-remember-where-it-came-from coffee mug for a fancy cardboard cup? Could I give up the sheer decadence of driving a child to school in my pajamas? Would I be able forego a Happy Meal for an expense-account lunch? Oh yeah. One day, for sure. Just not yet. For now, on the days when I am immersed in macaroni and cheese and picking Legos out of every hidden crevice in my couch, I am going to remain insanely jealous of my friend.

And then I’m going to make myself feel better by wearing my Manolos to the supermarket and wondering what my friend and I will get for Christmas next year.