There was a spring fair at Eva’s school today and I had no idea. She called me at lunch to ask me if she could go.  I vaguely remember getting some emails about donating cookies to a bake sale or buying raffle tickets, but I didn’t pay much attention. Why? Because I don’t care. I’m burnt out. I’ve become one of those moms, the kind I used to deride for “not doing their part.”

I have no guilt about this what- so- ever.

This is a very timely topic for all those 30- ish moms with young kids out there who are still killing themselves to be power moms. I recently had a conversation on this very topic with my newly found cyber mom friend,  Carley Knobloch of Mother Craft Coaching, who specializes in helping moms simplify their lives. She teaches busy moms how to apply her “ADD” formula to prioritize their daily tasks. The “A” stands for act, as in act on things you should do right away, like opening and sorting mail before it piles up. The first “D” represents those things you should delegate, like buying the cookies for the spring fair instead of baking them yourself. The final “D” stands for delete and these are all the things you really don’t need to do, like volunteering for everything. I’m in the delete parenting phase of my life right now.

As I told Carley, your lives get much simpler as you and your kids get older. First your kids start to feed themselves, then they go to the bathroom alone, followed by bathing themselves, putting themselves to bed and finally driving, getting jobs and supporting themselves. Along the way you stop obsessing over every activity. You come to terms with the fact that your child is not going to be an Olympic gymnast or professional soccer player after all,  and you eventually lose that drive to have it all, do it all and be it all. This usually happens around  middle school when your kids don’t want you hanging out at their school anyway. So all you young moms out there, chillax. Take a breather. Savor your babies now because it goes by so fast.

There is a 9th grade girl in Sophia’s high school who is pregnant. Eva told me first because she heard it at her school. Then Sophia told me and then everyone else  I know told me. Apparently the girl announced her pregnancy on her Facebook page and it is all anyone and everyone is talking about.

The girl is only a year older than Eva and went to the same grade school. I did not know the family well,  but I feel like I do now. How could this happen? Everyone wants to know. The girl  is not completely sure who the father is (there are four possible candidates) and she is going to have the baby, a boy supposedly, and put the child up for adoption. The mother of one of the suspected fathers has vowed to fight the adoption if the kid turns out to be her grandson. Oy. Double oy.

The scuttlebutt  on the paternal grandma is that she is super religious and never signed the waiver to let her kids take  sex education in health class. The scuttlebutt on the maternal grandma is that she dressed her daughter in provocative clothing, allowed her to wear makeup at an early age and bleached her hair when she was 10. All this I found out in the check out line at the grocery store.

I am not happy that this is happening to this poor girl and boy. And I don’t want to join in on the derision of their parents either, since my mother once told me, “Never criticize other people’s children because you never know what your kids are going to do. (Rumor has it that the mother of the boy in question is quite sanctimonious in the parenting department.) I did welcome the opportunity for discussion this has brought about and I happy and relieved to report that all three of my girls still think boys are gross. I trust that when those feelings change that they will make good choices. I am confident that they will have enough self respect to not have sex with the  football team. It’s been said that the poor girl in question has struggled with low self-esteem and self-worth (obviously) due to her parents ugly divorce. Her dad is apparently emotionally unavailable.  I can only hope that some day she will be able to put all of this behind her. In the meantime, I am holding all of my children close and making sure they know they are loved, so  they won’t go looking for it in all the wrong places.

One of the most sensitive issues in the whole blended family situation is the name thing. My kids have a different last name than my step kids and I now have a different last name than my children.  Which is the dominant name in the family? We sort of solved that problem by combining the two names into one, Shwanda, which is the name of this blog. (To read more about the transformation click here.)

I changed my last name when I got married to my first husband because I wanted to have the same last name as my children. Maybe not the feminist thing to do, but it was my decision. When I got married to my second husband he was sensitive to the fact that I had my first husband’s last name. Go figure. He told me he wouldn’t have minded if I had kept my maiden name, but the first husband’s last name kinda bugged him. I debated a bit because then my children would be offended and they were, but I changed my last name to my Paul’s anyway and my kids eventually understood. I explained to them that their last name would always be their tie to Daddy and that I wanted my last name to be my tie to my husband. So it was settled. But not quite.

Sophia, my oldest daughter, wrote about this very subject in her blog Stepkid Stories. In her post titled The Name Game Sophia revealed that she has often been asked if she has any plans to change her last name. She considers this a bizarre and intrusive question and so do I. Why would she change her last name? Even if her father were dead, I would never change my children’s last name. I could see if her dad were a dead beat and not in the picture, but anyone who knows us well knows that Sophia’s dad is a very active part of her life. Even still… it is NO ONE’S business and is a question that should never be asked.

Last night I took Sophia, my almost 17-year-old daughter, out for some pizza. It was just the two of us and we enjoyed our “Mom and me” alone time. I took the opportunity to pose this question to her.

“I’m curious, ” I told her. “I want to see if I raised you right. How do you judge a person’s character, and by that I mean a boyfriend or a potential mate? What kind of things do you look for?”

She paused for only a moment while she considered her answer. This is what she told me.” In a situation like this one, where we are waiting in line to place an order in a restaurant, I would observe how a man treated the person taking his order. Was he polite? Did he make eye contact? Was he impatient? Pushy? Considerate? The way he treats others is ultimately how he is going to treat you.”

Satisfied with her answer she concluded by saying, “He also have to reasonably put together. Like he washed his face, combed his hair and he smells good. He has to show that he’s at least made some effort.”

Yes, I raised her right. I always taught my girls to look for the nice boys. And I can see that Sophia learned that lesson.

If ever there were a poster child for getting your groove back it would have to be me. Let me explain.

Many, many moons ago, in my pre-soccer mom kid days, I was a mega star in the sales and marketing world. Every where I worked I was always at the top of my game, the top seller, the biggest producer, an up and coming media star. I often managed to get my name in the news, I was interviewed on TV and on NPR, my clothing line was featured on national talk shows and I was even mentioned on Page 6 of the New York Post. And then something happened. I got into a funk. I lost my courage and my confidence. I forgot who I was.

It all started when my daughter Eva was born 14 years ago and  I quit my job to stay home with my children. At least that is what I said I wanted.  I’m sure my ex-husband will remember things differently, that I made the choice of my own free will. But that is not how I saw it. As a mother of  an infant and a toddler married to a work-a-holic husband with no family support nearby, I really didn’t see that I had any other option. I just couldn’t see myself working all day and then coming home to care for young children while my then husband worked 80 hour weeks. I was tired of fighting him for help and attention so I just gave in. And then five years later, just when Eva was starting kindergarten, we got divorced. As a means to reignite my former self, I started a small business which was a modest success, but it could have been so much more. It was a struggle working on it alone as a single mother of small children so once again, I took the Mommy track and settled for less than what I knew I could produce. I laid low. I licked my wounds. I lost my groove.

But not anymore. Read the rest of this entry »

Paul and I are on a business trip in Reno, NV, a town that bills itself as the biggest little town …or… the smallest big town. I can’t remember. Something like that. Unlike their sister city, Las Vegas, also a gambling town, Reno has a more comfy, Wild West feel to it. (Note the Italian restaurant named Romanza. Is that a cross between romance and Bonanza??) It is closer to our home so we drove the five hour trip  past snow covered mountains through Truckee and Tahoe. We are here for a conference in which both Paul and I were guest speakers. More on that later. First I have to tell you about the hotel. If I were searching for words to describe it, ” tasteful” would not be one of them. However, this place is a riot and we are having a ball.

The casino, with its  tall ceiling, flashing neon lights and  popping sounds of slot machines can best be described as  walking through a life size pinball machine. That was the image that came to my mind. The Oceano Restaurant, complete with hanging jelly fish chandeliers has to be experienced in order to be fully appreciated.  The hotel room itself, however,  conjures an entirely different image. There is  a large Jacuzzi tub (for two)  in the center of the room with mirrors on the ceiling, naturally, and get this… there is a double strand of rope lighting  surrounding the perimeter of the ceiling that when lit up in the evening resembles an airport landing strip. Who designs these places I want to know? The trip was very successful but I am anxious to go home. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day and I miss my children.

While I was out dress shopping with Eva on Saturday, Sophia was at the high school taking her SAT’s.  When she  finished around 1pm she was starving so she came home and picked up Cheryl to take her to Burger King and then for a ride down to the beach. Sophia treated Cheryl since Cheryl has no money and Sophia has some money from her babysitting job. Sophia is  very generous that way. She doesn’t ask to be reimbursed. She is a wonderful big sister. She  often treats both Cheryl and Eva to movies and Starbucks. She reminds me of my big sisters, Nina and Pam who were also very good to me. The difference, of course, is that I was born into a family of older sisters. Cheryl was not.

Cheryl once told me that she cried on our wedding day. When I asked her why she said, “I cried tears of joy that I finally had sisters.” Sophia and Eva were not so cheerful that day because at the time they often considered  Cheryl to be  ”INSANELY ANNOYING!!!” All that has changed. Now, they wear each other’s clothes, trade makeup, ride bikes to the beach, go to the movies, hang out talking in their rooms and do just about everything together. Eva and Cheryl have this ritual every weekend when we are altogether. They pull out Eva’s wipe board and write a weekend “to do” list with tasks such as: (The spelling and parentheses are theirs.)

1. Put lemon juice in our hair and lay out in the sun.

2. Work on our tans.

3. Go to da beach.

4. Partay (not really)

5. Go to D.J.’s and get candy.

6. Create a dance routine.

7. Make a movie of our dance routine.

8. Get a samich at Joe’s

9. Wash Joey

10. Have a picnic on the trampoline.

This is the life of a 12 and 13 year-old. And what a life it is. I always tell them, “Do not ever tell me you didn’t have a wonderful childhood.”

I took just Eva shopping on Saturday to find a dress for her 8th grade graduation. We made the 30 mile trek to the mall in San Jose. I wanted it to be just the two of us so that the day would be special and all about her. Usually I take the three girls together which means  my attention is divided. Because Eva, the middle child, is so easy going and agreeable, I often worry that she is neglected.

We had a delightful time shopping for dresses and Eva found the perfect one. But ony after a bit of searching. We first went to Macy’s junior department and it was jam packed with beautiful, fancy dresses. Eva tried on several, but none suited her. There was one that I just loved because she looked so lovely in it. It was a bright yellow, flowing floral party dress that suited her olive skin tone beautifully. Eva did not like it. She looked at me and the discarded dresses strewn throughout the dressing room and sighed, “I like the dresses. I just don’t think they’re me.”

I did not protest or try to convince her to settle on one. Instead I remarked cheerily, “Then let’s try another store and we’ll keep searching until you find the dress that is just perfect for you.” And we did. The next stop was Nordstrom’s, who surprisingly had a pretty skimpy selection. We were about to give up when Eva spotted the dress hidden in a  corner on a rack by itself. It was a pinky, mauve satin strapless chemise with a lace overlay. She tried it on. It fit and she loved it. I bought it even though it was a little more than I wanted to spend. And not because I couldn’t resist her pleading look,  but because I know how wonderful it feels to have the perfect dress.

I remember shopping for my 8th grade graduation dress with my mother. We had been searching a while and I sensed my mother’s growing impatience. I finally found the dress of my dreams, but it was too expensive. I knew my mother couldn’t afford it so I didn’t even bother to ask. Instead I picked a cheaper version which my mother purchased and we took it home. I thought I had covered my disappointment pretty well, but apparently not. The next day when I got home from school, there it was lying on my bed …the perfect dress. While I was at school my mother exchanged the dress for the one I really wanted.  I wore that dress proudly as I walked in the graduation procession, wobbling in my first pair of high heels.

After Eva and I purchased the dress we went shopping for shoes. We found the perfect pair: solid mauve suede high heels. Her first.