After my swim, while I was toweling off and ready to relax with  my book, I couldn’t help but hear the wailing protestations of a little boy who was upset with his parents because they would not let him have some Skittles. He must have been about 5 or 6 and he was very upset. Throwing himself on the pavement, pounding his fists in anger and frustration and generally behaving like a spoiled, obnoxious brat. Although I agreed with his parents’ firm stance to not give in, I did not appreciate how they handled the situation because they essentially aided and abetted in their son’s outrageous behavior. Children need to know from a very early age that no means no and there is no backing down.

Instead, these parents resorted to what I refer to as “the parenting style of over explanation.” Too much talk and not enough action. For what seemed like an eternity, they coddled and cajoled this kid with hollow platitudes of “If you keep acting like this we are going to have to leave.” Neither I nor the kid believed for a nanosecond that  they would follow through on that threat.  I was jumping out of my skin. It took every ounce of restraint I had to not pull the kid aside and chide, “Dude, it’s downhill from here. Missing out on Skittles is nothing compared to having your driving privileges taken away when you’re 16 because you got a D in Algebra. Lighten up. It’s no big deal. Get over it.”   Instead I kept those thoughts to myself. As I was leaving and Junior was still pitching his fit, I made eye contact with an elderly woman, a grandmother, I’m sure. She looked at me. Looked at the kid and we both tsked tsked. We commiserated for a moment about the bad parenting we just observed. I left feeling sorry for the kid.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

These past few months working on my master’s degree have served to set the stage for my big comeback, which was this past week at a business convention in Reno. Paul was slated to instruct a class and was lobbying hard for me to teach a break out session on Internet marketing. He felt I had a lot to contribute and I agreed. When the convention organizers gave me the green light, I hurriedly put together a Power Point presentation and crossed my fingers that people would show up and I would calm my nerves long enough to get through it. People showed up and I got through it OK, or so I thought. There were about a dozen attendees in the room and everyone came up to me afterward raving about the presentation. They gave my their business cards and asked me to send them the presentation. One person told me she learned more from me than from anyone else and that seeing my presentation was worth the cost of the convention. I couldn’t believe it. I started to feel the successful rumblings of my former self, but it wasn’t until a few hours later when I was convinced that the old me was back.

Lunch was served to all trade show attendees in a large, cavernous hall with high ceilings, a big stage and  lots of tables. Paul and I found a seat in the back of the room to listen to the keynote speaker give a talk on “overcoming one’s fears” to an audience of at least 300 people. As a demonstration of his message he asked for volunteers to get up on stage and tell everyone why they were there. I thought about going up, but someone beat me to it and I was relieved. A few minutes later he asked again, but this time there were no takers. I knew if I didn’t go up there I would always regret it. I’m the marketing director for our company for crying out loud. What better opportunity to promote our business than to get up on stage, grab the microphone and tell everyone about it. Before I could lose my nerve, I found myself rushing up to the front up the room and bounding up the stairs to the stage. I made my speech. I was nervous. My voice quivered a bit, but I told everyone there about our product and why we were there. Afterward Paul beamed with pride. Several people came up to him to tell him they were interested in hearing more about our product and to congratulate him for having such a courageous wife.

The next day I attended a seminar and the man in front of me turned around and said, “You’re that lady who got up on that stage.” He gave me his card and told me to have Paul contact him. I got Paul a lot of leads by doing that. But in the end I didn’t do it for him, and I didn’t do it to promote our business. I did it for me. I was that lady who got up on that stage, and in the process, I got my groove back.

This is the first in a series of Blended Family Stories in which I or one of my fellow moms and stepmoms will recount their experiences, challenges, frustrations and joys being the female head of a blended or stepfamily. If you or anyone you know would like to participate in my video log, please contact me at Carol@shwanda.com.

Last week I told you  about our trip to San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara to look at colleges for Sophia. We had a blast. I took all three girls, my two daughters,  Sophia and Eva, and my stepdaughter Cheryl. We planned the trip a few months ago and even went shopping  for new outfits; shorts, swimsuits, etc. just for the occasion. What I did not plan for was that we were going to be gone for Easter. I had gotten the dates mixed up and thought Easter was the following week, which meant that  I had actually planned the trip so that we would be gone for Easter.

A few days before we were to leave, Paul got a call from his ex-wife, Cheryl’s mother, saying that Cheryl had decided she did not want to  go because she would much rather stay home and hang out with her friends. She also informed Paul that Cheryl  was afraid to tell me herself for fear that I would be “mad at her”. Paul relayed the news to me, and  I did not buy it for one second. Not want to go because you want to hang out with your friends??? Come on. I knew there was more to the story, but I didn’t want to put on any pressure for fear that I would be characterized as one who “gets mad at things”. So I said nothing, even though I was concerned that Cheryl would be missing out on a great opportunity to visit colleges and that she would regret it. Quite frankly, I was a little pissed. I told Paul, “You should encourage her to go. This is a great opportunity. Seeing these college campuses will inspire her.” But he resisted my prodding, which only exacerbated the problem further. Our differing parenting styles often clash. When it comes to kids (and just about anything), I believe in getting to the bottom of things. Paul does not. He thinks we should let things flow “organically”.  “Don’t get involved and don’t imagine things,” he always tells me. So I kept my mouth shut and I didn’t say anything to Cheryl about not going.

The night before we were to leave Cheryl was sitting on the couch playing on her iPod and I asked her, “So, Cheryl, what are your plans for this weekend?” She replied, “I’m going on the trip with you.” This was news to me, but I did not let on. Instead I said, “Well let’s do your laundry and get you packed” While we were in the laundry room sorting through her clothes she admitted to me, ” I never not wanted to go. I just felt bad about being gone over Easter…” and her voice trailed off. I realized she felt guilty about leaving her parents. After all, I’m not her mother.  She had divided loyalties.

I called Cheryl’s mother to tell her Cheryl had had a change of heart and decided to go. She was surprised. If she was disappointed she didn’t let on. She had Easter plans with Cheryl, but to her credit, she did not object and respected Cheryl’s decision to come with us on the trip.  Cheryl and her mom celebrated Easter on Wednesday after we returned. Sometimes, that’s what you have to do in a blended family.

We planned to mark the occasion by leaving the kids home alone and sneaking out after dinner to “reenact” our first date. But… that didn’t pan out. Instead I had a headache and homework to do and Paul, being the absolute doll that he is, sensed my bad mood and in his usual caring, loving way,  alleviated my stress by  offering  to pick up takeout. He came home with several dishes from my favorite local Asian restaurant and a bottle of Windy Oaks pinot noir, the winery where we got married. We stayed home and lit a fire.

While he was out picking up our dinner, I routed through some files and found copies of our original email exchanges I had printed out, which I read to him later when we were alone. It reminded me of why I fell in love with him, why I still love him and I shuddered at the thought that I almost never wrote back to him in the first place. Below is a quote in its entirety  of the very first email he  sent to me exactly as he wrote it.

“I read your profile iand see yours yours. Seems like parallel paths, but a few miles apart within Santa Cruz!”

That’s it folks. That’s all I got. Not only was it riddled with misspellings that made the statement  basically unintelligible, but THAT WAS ALL HE HAD TO SAY??? Where was the worship and adoration I was seeking? No, “You’re so beautiful and fascinating that I  cannot wait to meet you!” It is hard for me to imagine now, but I almost wrote him off for his bad grammar and lousy punctuation, which is ironic when I consider what a great writer Paul is. He proofreads all of my papers for school and his input makes them so much better. He is meticulous, neat and tidy in so many areas of his life (except that he often leaves his dirty socks and underwear on the bedroom floor) that it is hard for me to believe that I almost let him get away for the careless, inconsiderate slob I initially perceived him to be. This brings me to my point, ladies: Don’t let the good ones get away while you pine away for some idealized fantasy of some fairytale prince that you have built up in your mind as THE ONE.

I just finished reading a fantastic book that I believe  is perhaps the most seminal in depth study of male/female relationships that I cannot recommend it enough. It is called, Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough I know, the title puts you off a little bit. It is a little offensive. How dare anyone expect you to settle? Like it’s a dirty word. The author Laura Gottlieb makes a strong case for doing just that. Settling in this context is more about compromise and being realistic,  and ultimately  about acceptance.

Gottlieb learned this lesson the hard way and is trying to spare other women of committing the same mistakes. She says women today have a heightened sense of entitlement. They expect too much without really thinking about what they have to give to get. She quotes Dr. Michael Broder, a Philadelphia-based psychologist who specializes in relationships as saying, “For these women, not only is the imagined guy a fantasy, but so is the actual relationship. After all, there’s a limit to what a relationship can provide.  They are looking for a relationship from the perspective of what the guy can provide for them — a ‘me-me-me thing’ — instead of wanting something more reciprocal.” He went on to say that our mother’s generation was not like this. “They may have wished, but certainly didn’t expect, that their husbands would constantly want to please them, be attracted to them, entertain them, enjoy sharing all of their interests, and be the most charming person in the room. Instead they knew that marriage involved failing health, aging, boredom, periods of stress and disconnection, annoying habits, issues with children,  hardships and misunderstandings of all sorts.”

I know women like this and they are all alone. A few years ago I tried to introduce my never married 40ish friend to a really great guy I knew whom I described to her as, “Sweet, kind, really good looking, fun, active, smart, funny, has a good job and owns his own home.” Her response? How tall is he? She just couldn’t date him if he wasn’t at least five inches taller than she. He wasn’t. He’s now married to someone else and she’s still alone. I know another woman who will summarize her first date by telling you what he wore. She’ll describe his shirt, his shoes and the car he drove. There is never any mention of his character or  personality, how he treated her, what they talked about or how she felt when she was with him. She told me recently, “I just want a guy who’s crazy about me.” Oy.

Relationships are work. They take effort, investment, time and patience. NO ONE is perfect. We all have flaws. My 40ish friend was 30 pounds over weight when she made her  “I can’t date a short guy” proclamation.  Imagine if the tables were turned and he said, “Sorry, I can’t take a gal who’s chubby.” He’d be a cad. She, on the other hand, is selective. She won’t settle.

I didn’t settle either. I have my standards. My husband had to love kids and dogs. He had to be kind, loving, smart and funny. No bad tempers or substance abuse issues. I can still remember that first time I stood in Paul’s kitchen and he poured his heart out to me. He confessed that he really didn’t have much money. (As if I couldn’t guess. Financial hardship is often a by product of divorce.) I knew I loved him when I didn’t care. We could make a life together and we started planning that minute. Thank god I didn’t toss him aside when I got that first email.