Tag Archives: young adults

London Table for One: Learning, Living & Leaving (or better) Mom Needs a Pint – Stat

I traveled to another country with my daughter and I left her there.

In the cab on my way to the airport in pre-dawn darkness with her apartment – excuse me, flat — fading from view, I went over the past week in my head. It seemed I’d blinked and suddenly all the planning and problems and logistical hiccups had passed and now it was time for me to go.

Oddly, I felt good. Better than good, I felt calm. Better than calm, I felt genuinely excited for her new adventure. She was going to be just fine.

I didn’t always believe this. Oh, hell no.

In fact, when she asked me to accompany her my knee-jerk reaction was an emphatic NOPE. You made this crazy, impulsive decision, my crushed heart shouted to my brain, I am not helping you with this. I was hurt. She was already living 2,000 miles from home. How far was far enough?

But this wasn’t about me. Knee-jerks aside, I knew that.

She’d accepted a London position within her company and immediately began purging her possessions, returning home to finalize her transition and prepare.

For the first time in nearly a decade she shared our home yet none of our past skirmishes – the hair in the shower, the food under the bed, the sleeping until midday – surfaced. She cooked dinners and hung around with our friends and managed all the details of her departure with a skip in her step. It was as if we both knew our time was fleeting and the petty spats of her youth remained mocking memories.

It was indeed awesome but not without headaches – or facial tics.

For six weeks I bore witness to how a millennial plans things. Fun fact: it’s a wee bit different than how a mom does. As her exit loomed, I became increasingly anxious at all the open loose ends of her international move but she was having none of it. At the risk of having my plus-one status revoked, I zipped it and ignored my growing apprehensions.

I took a deep breath and stole a mantra from my bestie who’d declared, at the start of her very first year as a new divorcee, a Year of Yes: 365 days of saying yes to every invitation, social suggestion or life opportunity that arose. Well, if she could do that, I marveled, sensing my own whine, and put on my Big Girl panties.

I declared this trip my own Week of Yes and went along with everything – and anything – that came up. Despite my daily dread or dogged reservations or downright disagreements with her many decisions, I went with the flow – her flow (Mom, it’s FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE) – and forced myself to chill out.

We left as soon as her Visa came – without her replacement bank card having arrived yet, without a guaranteed – or signed – lease and without any idea where we’d be sleeping on Night 2.

There were at least a dozen other unresolved open loose ends when we arrived.

She closed them one by one, taking some lumps for a couple of impulsive decisions, but in the end, everything worked out.

I allowed her to adult her way through every obstacle and steered clear of Mom Mode, resisting the urge to whip out a credit card for every expense or offer unsolicited advice.

I forced myself to stay silently in the background, left my phone turned off for the week and became, simply, the weighted blanket in the room.

While she researched and placed calls and signed reams of documents I read and did crossword puzzles and sat in the café chair facing the room like a mob boss, happy to people watch while she did her thing.

The many logistics were overwhelming. Selling all her life’s stuff, moving across an ocean and (oy, don’t get me started) coordinating shipment of a beloved dog was intense – as well as fraught with false starts and wire transfers and problems we didn’t anticipate.

I followed her around all week while she mastered the tubes – both over and underground.

I helped lug all her bedding (via the tubes) back to her place.

I drank as many pints as was necessary to become accustomed to all the neighborhood pubs near her new home address (this task, no surprise, a cinch).

I uttered not a syllable of complaint about sharing tiny beds or rooming with massive spiders (come on Brits – install window SCREENS!) and laughed it off when a lock of my hair hit the ground, burnt straight off using the wrong blow dryer.

It turns out, my calm demeanor proved to be a salve to her frazzled brain.

At the conclusion of the week over some wine, she thanked me for letting her figure it all out without any judgement.

So while I rode away in that cab, I found my initial throat-grip of worry had simmered to a slight buzzing beneath the surface that I embrace pretty much every day for all my children, regardless of their ages. Truly, that’s motherhood. Just another day I suppose.

She’s one of the most competent young adults I know, a rarity, for sure.

But it was still hard saying goodbye.

I tackled a myriad of feelings that week, mostly fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of leaving this tiny and beautiful creature in a place without knowing a soul, fear of everything Keith Morrison and Dateline duly taught me. But I never felt doubt.

I left her with an old photo of the two of us, in it her tiny toddler face radiating with badass confidence and fearlessness and I wrote on the back We Do Hard Things.

Because we do.

And we did.

And will continue to.

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!)

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

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My daughter isn’t a complainer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Umm, paging the awkward police.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(and to prove her prideful progression … imma just leave this here…)

# # #

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

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Motherhood is definitely not for the weak. Usually around the changing seasons I become a bit melancholy, thinking of the obvious passage of time and kids getting older and – always – my mom who passed a number of years ago. Parenting without a trusted beacon is a challenge sometimes. It makes me ponder how I’m doing as a mom.

If I’m a bit subdued to begin with, this year in particular finds the universal mood not helping. Still absorbing the almost daily dreadful news of multiple mass shootings at the hands of young adults, I recently scrolled across other appallingly awful headlines:

“17-Year-Old Kills Cat with Bow and Arrow”

“2 Teens Throw 6-Year-Old Off Museum Roof”

“Teen Expelled, Arrested for Racist Gun Video, Says He ‘Hates Blacks’”

My God. How could any parent ever imagine that phone call?

I’m a pretty avid fan of true-crime (not a podcast band-wagoner but a legit 1980s Ann Rule aficionado) and I know horrific, unspeakable acts of violence have been going on for decades. Decades. The only difference is now we hear about them daily (thank you, Internet & frenzied mosh-pit of media). Seems these stories are appearing more and more frequently and the sheer amount of young perpetrators is more than a little unnerving.

As a mother, my thoughts inevitably turn to the parents of the accused. How did they – how could they – not know something was seriously, horrifyingly amiss with their kids?

I think I’d know.

I think I’d know if my kid was hurting animals.

I think I’d know if my kid was using (stockpiling, fantasizing over, obsessing about) guns.

I think I’d know if my kid was hateful. Or racist. Or intolerant. Or more than just a typical, idiotic, sowing-his-oats-with-stupidity adolescent.

I would know. I’m sure of it.

I’d know because at the risk of being incredibly disliked by my kids, I’ve always set boundaries. Boundaries that distinctly indicated right and wrong behavior. Boundaries that let them know when a line was crossed. Boundaries that specified exactly what was not going to be tolerated and why.

I even utilized rudimentary (okay sure, judgmental) boundaries that also offered acceptable and unacceptable suggestions about societal presentation. Take tattoos. I don’t dislike tattoos and most of my loved ones sport them. Some are even 100% mandatory (crushing your 1st NYC marathon at age 50? Ink up, my rock star husband!). But I’ve never allowed my kids to have them – unless they wanted to relinquish rent-free living in my home.

Why?

Because along with the obvious (if a kid has money to burn on body art shouldn’t a kid have money to contribute to my groceries or Game of Thrones bill?), I also believe kids are super dumb and shouldn’t have to pay penance forever for all the super dumb decisions they make in youth. I remember exactly what I said to my daughter’s emotional appeal while in high school: You don’t even wear the same clothes you did four months ago that you (*shriek) loved and had to have. What makes you think you’re going to (*shriek) love a tattoo at 25 that you picked out at 18? Please. (Update: a bona fide adult now, I’ve lost track of her body’s mural of colors; she’s still beautiful and I still love her madly and she pays for own apartment so there.)

But here was my real reason: Teens and young adults have enough going against them without the side-eye of a judgmental society. Lazy! Rude! Always on their phones! It’s hard enough for them to catch a break so it was my mantra: Life is hard enough, don’t do anything to limit your options.

Wait on it, I urged all my kids (so far, they have.) And good grief, unless you’re outdoors braving the elements, lose that ridiculous hoodie.

I had a recent conversation about boundaries with my son (you know, a conversation about why I was being the buzzkill parent saying NO for the umpteenth time). I told him about the father and teenage son I watched walking into a store ahead of me. The waistband of the kid’s pants hung just underneath his buttocks. I admitted to my son that my second thought (the first being, hmmph, I didn’t know that was still a thing) was, that poor kid. That poor kid doesn’t have one worthy adult in his life to look at him and say, “Pull your pants up, you look like an idiot” and that was incredibly sad to me. It made me wonder what else he was allowed to do unchallenged in his home.

I then told him about a cashier I recently encountered. It was at an icky thrift store (which – disclaimer and stone cold admission — I don’t really care for. We all have our thing. Leave me to my draft beer in a plastic cup thankyouverymuch). Anyway, here was this young man: facial tattoos, spiked hair a foot high, earlobe plugs the size of teacup saucers chained to his nostril hoops … you get the picture. It was truly the stuff of parental nightmares. The thing is, I felt really bad for him, too. Was there not one voice of reason in his life to ever say, Kid, what say you pump the brakes on that idea? Or, How about waiting until you’re older to permanently scar your body. Or even, No, you will not visit your grandmother looking like that, go upstairs and change.

I wondered, did any adult ever forewarn these kids about limiting their options in life?

Please, oh please, see my big picture here. I am in no way connecting dots to declare that kids with ass-draggy pants and tattoos are all growing up to be gun-toting, hate-spewing mass murderers. My kids are far from pillars of society and I am actively in the trenches of vaping and weed and booze … Really — a soapbox I have none.

I just think maybe we can start someplace small with giving kids the boundaries they need, even crave.

If I can sustain countless arguments holding firm on the small stuff – the piercings, the rainbow-brite hair, the endless sleepovers, the curfews and – my favorite — the relentless “you’re the ONLY parent who does this” nonsense … you can bet your sweet ass I’d have a thing or two to say about my kid walking around in a trench coat. Or brooding around longer than what Dr. Phil would deem typical. Or talking back to a teacher. Or bus driver. Or any adult.

Killing children. Killing pets. Spewing hate. Hiding guns. Using guns.

I’m really struggling with it. Where does it start? How do parents not know?

How could you not know?

I would know. And if she was still here, my mom would know, too.

# # # #

Tina Drakakis blogs at Eyerollingmom and 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!)

A Momoir, Chapter 8: High School Graduation – My Big Fat So What

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As my youngest’s high school graduation loomed recently I became increasingly thrown by the emotional parent posts ramping up on my Facebook feed. While I continued to post equally enthusiastic OMG!s over every Game of Thrones episode, I started to realize I wasn’t nearly as wrapped up in the upcoming milestone as the other moms.

At my attendance at each of the requisite senior assemblies I watched as these other moms passed around tissues – while I checked my watch, gauging my arrival to work.

I scrolled my feed daily, seeing one heartfelt sentiment after another.

Where did the time go???? (multiple punctuation marks)

I just can’t believe it! (multiple sad emojis)

So proud! (picture, picture, picture, pic…)

And there I sat, silently wondering Are we all talking about high school? Um, isn’t this supposed to happen?

I was neither sad nor melancholy and quickly suspected there might be something wrong with me. Sure, sure, sure I’d been at this rodeo three times already. But had I become world-weary? Jaded? Cynical? I mean, for a school *career, my kid had a pretty great run. He – like many of his friends – did well academically, had impressive moments on the field and on occasion, even garnered a few local headlines that at times made his head swell. Of course I was proud of him.

But (again) this was high school. My overall sentiment percolated under the surface: okay, great, kudos, nice job, way to go.

Now, move on.

I’m sorry (not sorry) it’s just never been something I’ve ever thought was a big deal. In fact it’s been unconditionally expected for all of my kids. Getting through high school was their only job and while I enjoyed every moment in an auditorium or bleacher and duly scrapbooked every news clipping, I’m ready to put it on a shelf and start a new one.

With a whole life ahead of them, I’ve always been more excited to see what my kids will all do when left to their own passions and inclinations.

Now, before the knives come out, really, I have not lived this last year of high school without all emotion. Far from it (Facebook can confirm). I have enjoyed and embraced his every memorable moment and even have a favorite.

Unbeknownst to him, there is one particular Mom Moment I will hold onto for a very, very long time (you know, until the moment gets taken over by this kid running NASA or curing cancer or I don’t know, taking out the trash without being asked).

My paramount takeaway from my final kid’s high school experience was actually my own experience during his last hurrah, at his last assembly. As the graduating class walked in, swishing by in their robes, past the parents, and onto the stage, I (looked up from my watch, naturally and) caught a glimpse of some other parents as he walked by them.

We live in a small Norm-from-Cheers town, where everybody knows your name and most, if not all, parents know each other by a history of six degrees of K-12 separation (or siblings). Many of these parents – better than me, who’d arrived early and had scored the enviable, photography-worthy aisle seats (unlike myself, sitting in the back, closer to my car) watched as my kid walked by. As he did, and since I had the panoramic of the auditorium from my vantage point in the back (totally planned) I caught sight of some parents and saw their smiles broaden as he passed. I scanned some more faces and saw it repeated, and witnessed the creases in their crow’s feet deepen, too. Some others applauded more heartily and fist bumped him as he neared their aisle seat. My insides swelled. There was such tremendous and genuine affection and fondness in their expressions I found myself only watching the crowd as he passed. Those that know him were beaming and it was a vision I will never, ever forget (memory be damned – it’s in a blog now — #internetforever).

I don’t think anything could ever make me any prouder as a parent.

(In fact as soon as those wet towels are picked up I am soooo posting about it.)

Without question, I highly recommend reading the room whenever your kid walks in. It just may give you all the parental validation you’ll ever need in life.

And – at least for me – that experience will most definitely outshine a high school graduation every time.

# # # #

A Momoir, Chapter 7: Hello, Happiness? Are You Out There? Hello? Hello…?

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A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child.

Despite being traced as far back as Jackie Kennedy, likely even earlier, I’d never heard this saying until my sister nonchalantly said it over Thanksgiving. My mind keeps coming back to it because it’s actually quite profound if you think about it. These days especially.

Why? Because as I’m finding out, a lot of kids really aren’t that happy. And if that saying holds any truth … good grief. There goes my dream of stress-free evenings of karaoke in my retirement village because there’s a fair chance I may be fretting forever.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately for good reason. With four kids in varying stages of young-adulthood there’s a smattering of unhappiness in my family on any given day. I can’t seem to keep up with it and most days I don’t know how to make it go away. As all moms know, the feeling of helplessness is the worst.

On the surface, my kids have lived fairly mundane, non-traumatic lives. Typical extraneous factors aside (not making a coveted team, middle school bullying, romantic heartbreak) they’ve all encountered life’s disappointments with little residual scarring. It might’ve helped that most of their setbacks were met with my steely shrugs. Hell, they were taught at an early age that toys from the dollar store would not last the car ride home: yes, you can have it but no crying when it breaks, k? Dry those eyes, get that chin up and move on. It’s not the end of the world. This too shall pass. Glass half full.

You get the picture.

But it seems my tough tactics notwithstanding, things got a little muddy in between SATs and graduation gowns. The Expectation vs. Reality of the real world is crippling our young adults and now I — and dozens of friends — are finding ourselves helping them navigate a reality they have been utterly unprepared for. I know plenty of kids (“kids” in their twenties) who are floundering, feeling unfulfilled, filing away their diplomas to work as bartenders and nannies and quitting six figure salary jobs because they’re just not happy. Um, what?

This confounds me for when I think back at my own young-adult journey it didn’t seem so … I don’t know, difficult. After turning my back on the circus that was high school (because hello, high school is a circus for every generation. Period.) I went off to college – where I stayed for four straight years: dropping classes, adding classes, switching majors, drinking too much, kissing wrong guys, coming home at Christmas because … everyone did. Three days after graduation I pounded the pavement with a neat stack of freshly typed resumes under my arm and took the first job offer that came. Thus began Chapter One of My So-Called Adult Life.

It was 1988 and we were all following the bread crumbs sprinkled by Gordon Gekko and Tess McGill (“….Leeeeeeeeeeet the river ruuuuuuuun!”) and when those first jobs sucked (at $14k a year most did), we typed up new resumes and got new ones. Chin up, move on.

We didn’t backpack through Europe. We didn’t take a gap year. We didn’t even come home from college until they closed the dorms on us. Today, if I had a dollar for every kid I know that went off to college and didn’t finish out the year, lord, I’d have some purdy nice things to unload on Ebay.

Sadly, our kids are setting out to find euphoric satisfaction in life and they’re becoming disillusioned to discover that is a most elusive achievement.

Recently I had a conversation with my daughter (23). I’ve written of her before because she is a brilliant being and a remarkable soul. She finished college in less than four years and is, ahem, no dummy. Currently she’s living across the country, experiencing the beauty of other regions, seeking her own life satisfaction and is – for the most part — happy. But she shared a thought with me that pointed out this dilemma rather succinctly. She said her generation has been groomed (thank you, Ted Talks and progressive professors) to be bold and follow their dreams. To engage in their passions. To focus on what makes them happy and just do it.

Yet what she and her friends are finding – all these years later – is that their passionate happy dreams … are not exactly paying their bills. Life, it turns out, is expensive. Some are becoming slowly cynical by this stark realization and finding themselves in a Now what? conundrum.

What’s so wrong with following your passion on the weekends? she mused.

I concurred and admitted that while I love to write, if I was forced to give up my day job and stare at my laptop forced to write every single day I might begin to loathe it. Then I reminded her that most adults (cough, my age) don’t go skipping off to their jobs each morning singing songs and shitting confetti on their way but most would agree we’re happy nonetheless. Chin up, move on.

Her remarks made me believe that – despite the constant worry that comes with parenting a child from afar – the kid’s going to be alright. Luckily, she’s starting to get it (soooooo, talk to your bothers, will ya?).

Still, it got me thinking. Since all these grand ideas about happiness being force-fed into youthful minds are not turning out to be so grand after all, maybe there needs to be some menu changes on that advice buffet they’re chowing on.

For starters, we’re insisting that kids select college majors while they’re still in high school. That is absurd. The sheer amount of times my kids change their clothing or hair styles leaves me doubtful they’d ever stick with any decision that seemed like a good idea at 16 or 17.

We’re also jumping aboard a crazy train when it comes time for college applications. Here’s a thought: if a kid can barely get him/herself up and off to school – FOR FREE – what makes any parent think it’ll happen when they’re hundreds of miles away with thousands of dollars on the line and a gazillion other distractions?

Funny. We’re telling kids to go off and journey to find their life happiness when they’ve never used public transportation … or written out a check … or paid a bill … or even fully understand the words remit, interest, fee …

I don’t know. Today is not the day I can solve this problem. It just seemed a helluva lot easier being content when we were blindly following the Brat Pack and dreaming about DeLoreans.

I keep my fingers crossed that my kids will come to learn that their road to happiness is winding and full of red lights …

… and that sometimes being stuck in a traffic jam allows a person some needed time to think about the direction s/he’s headed in …

… and that it’s always okay to change your course. Always.