It was a heart break for both Eva and Jill to not live so close to each other. Eva does not remember a time when they were not friends. They met when they were three. I have photos of them dressed in their Madeline costumes selling lemonade in the front yard.  It is amazing how close these two girls are and probably always will be. Their friendship has survived not only our move, but the test of middle school. Now they are both 14, starting high school in the fall and IN LOVE with Justin Bieber. Susie and I gave the girls the tickets as a gift for their 8th grade graduation. We took them out to dinner first and while they went into the concert to watch the opening acts we waited in line to buy T-shirts. I enjoyed spoiling my daughter this way. I used to worry that she was the neglected middle child … but not anymore. As we were leaving the concert, (after 3 1/2 hours of shrieking and squealing) Eva put her arms around me, squeezed me hard and proclaimed, “This was the greatest night of my life. Thanks, Mom.” I swooned with Mommy glee.

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.

It was a fun filled, busy and joyful occasion filled with lots of activities during the day with  surfing, sailing and  kayaking, and in the evenings at each other’s homes playing charades, board games and reminiscing over old photos of Pop Pop in the army and on his wedding day. Those were the moments when I looked at my girls blending in with their “step” aunts, uncles and cousins, enjoying themselves and feeling included, even though they don’t share the same heritage, history or genealogy. After Sophia and Eva left for the wedding in New Jersey, where I heard reports that they ripped up the dance floor with their East coast cousins, we had one final big party at our house on the last day of the reunion.

I had planned a menu of grilled chicken kabobs, homemade potato salad and coleslaw. It was  a pot luck and everyone brought their contribution. Paul’s older brother decided he wanted the family to take a trip down memory lane and asked his wife to prepare “bun burgers,” a dish their mother made for them as children. It stirred some fond and not so fond memories. (Apparently not everyone liked the bun burgers.) I didn’t quite get the recipe, but I watched them being prepared. Basically, you prepare ground beef like you are making hamburgers. Throw in some spices and some chopped onions, but instead of adding bread crumbs, pick out the bread from the tops of hamburger buns, which leaves a big O, tear it into pieces and add to the mix. The top of the bun is placed on the bottom half of the bun and then on a cookie sheet. Next, scoop up a  generous dollop of hamburger meat and place inside the opening of the top bun. Bake in the oven at 400 degrees and just before they are done, top with strips, in an X shape, of Kraft processed American cheese. Place back in oven until melted.

I have to say they were pretty darn good and could easily be adapted to something healthy and rather gourmet if using, say, ground turkey, whole wheat buns and  perhaps some goat cheese, instead of the fatty beef and fake cheese. The culinary nostalgia didn’t end there. No. There were fish sticks too! You know, the frozen kind that comes in a box with lots of fillers and mystery ingredients. They were a  once-a-week staple in Paul’s family’s house. Paul’s brother felt that no family reunion was complete without fish sticks and bun burgers. As we were standing around the kitchen, noshing on the retro delicacies, he lamented, “Too bad we don’t have fake milk to go with them.” Anyone who grew up in a large, budget stretching family in the 50’s and 60’s would know what fake milk is. I do. My mom used to take powdered milk, mix it with water and add it to the real milk to make it last a little longer. It was gross, but we accepted it because that’s just the way it was.

As Paul’s family reminisced about their childhood memories, I reflected on my own (I’m one of five kids.) and realized that big families are pretty much the same.  It isn’t just the food, the family vacations, the sibling squabbles and competition for the bathroom that they have in common, but rather the inherent bonds, life lessons and experiences that go with the territory. I’ve always said being part of a big family prepares you for life’s greatest challenges: To be able to get along with anyone, to know how to wait your turn, to accept delayed gratification and to tolerate things that can at times be somewhat unpleasant.

My thoughts wandered to the future as I pictured myself at Sophia’s or Eva’s wedding and imagined all the guests who would attend.  There would be my family, Jared’s family and  Paul’s. It would be  a blended family wedding… and one hell of a party.

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.

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.