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.

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.

I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on myself since my mom was guilty of  misplacing her children too. When we were kids she used to take us to WaWa after church on Sundays. (WaWa is a Northeastern regional convenience store chain similar to 7Eleven. I wish they had them here because they have the greatest milkshakes.) While Mom was at the deli counter we five kids would run wild through the store. My younger sister Jill and I would dip our hands into the pickle barrels, lick the pickles and throw them back in. (Aahh. Those were the days.) One day, Jill must have been in the bathroom when we left the store and drove home without her. I think we were home about a half hour when my mother  realized her “oversight” and shrieked in horror, “WE LEFT JILL IN WAWA!!!!!!!!!!!” We all clamored into the paneled station wagon (which my father had decorated with embarrassing Flower Power stickers) while my mom sped like a maniac back to the store where we found Jill wandering the aisles aimlessly, oblivious to the fact that we had left her in the store and had gone home without her.  My mother covered well when she told my sister, “Come on, Jill. Time to go.” Just as I did when I told Eva, “Sure, I’ll be right over to get you.” And we wonder why some children have abandonment issues.

For example, I can remember very clearly one day a while ago walking into a grocery store and running into a friend of mine at the check out stand. She and her 5-year-old daughter were in a heated discussion over her daughter’s choice of a candy bar. Her mother had told her  she could have one and the child wanted two. There were lots of tears and ruminations over what to choose and I got the impression this had been going on for quite some time. The mom looked at me imploringly and asked, “What do I do?” And I thought, “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME?”  But instead I said, “You tell her quite emphatically that ‘She can have one, or none. Period.’ And if she gives you a hard time, you put all the candy back, whisk her out of the store and she gets nothing. Next time there won’t be any whining.” She did it and it worked. The kid got the message.

Now I don’t want to sound sanctimonious or self-righteous here,  and as my beloved late mother used to caution, “Never comment on or criticize other people’s kids or parenting skills because you never know how your kids are going to turn out.”,  but the basic premise of good parenting is not that hard …  it is the enforcement that is killer.  Which brings me to the point of this whole discussion.

I would have to say that the biggest challenge of blending families, at least for our family, is the assimilation of diverging parenting styles. I myself come from the school of sit-up-straight-don’t-talk-with-your-mouth-full-turn-off-the-TV-do-your-homework-and-get-that-smirk-off-your-face  camp,  and my darling husband falls more into the category of if-they-want-to-roll-their-clothes-into-a-ball-under-the-bed-why-does-it-matter- philosophy.  So you can see my frustration. Especially since the kids are with me most of the time. I have learned for the sake of family harmony, and for my own sanity, to let a lot of things slide. But the one thing that I am  most adamant about is the “One or None” philosophy, aka “Because I said so.”, which boils down to, “I mean what I say and I say what I mean.” Direct messages with direct consequences are the best tools for disciplining your children. Don’t back down. And don’t blink.

My  questions are: Why are only women being targeted? Can’t men cook dinner and/or drive the kids around? And why do the kids have so many after school activities? Why can’t the kids walk home? Do we live in such a sprawling society that there are no more neighborhood schools within walking distance? No community support for carpooling? Ever heard of a crock pot? Or Rachel Ray’s 30 minute meals? What about putting the kids to work? My mom worked full time with five kids and when we got home from school (we walked home or took the bus) she would call us and tell us what to do. Set the table. Make the salad. Bread the chicken cutlets. I always say that I learned how to cook over the phone.

The bigger problem is that our culture is obsessed with over-scheduling kids to the point that they have absolutely no free time. Life has become like the proverbial hamster wheel and we can’t get off. Maybe my kids are slackers, but they are not that busy. Eva has soccer two days a week after school. She also wants to take dance lessons and I said she could do that when soccer is over. Not at the same time. It is too much. Last night when she got home from practice she and Cheryl worked on  their dance routine in her room. Eva is also teaching herself how to juggle.  Sophia did her homework and jumped on the trampoline. Mark played his guitar and watched the baseball game. My kids were home at a reasonable hour.  I cooked dinner and we ate it together. Grant it, it was not an elaborate meal, just boiled pierogies and jarred applesauce, and we ate at the kitchen counter instead of the dining room table, but it wasn’t fast food in the back of the station wagon either. And I do this alone with a husband who travels. The kids pitch in. They do the dishes, walk the dog, fold laundry and Sophia, my right arm, helps with the driving. I also have a great support network of friends who help out when needed.  I learned this from my mother. She knew how to delegate  and that’s the secret.

I was, however,  lucky enough to have had a very close relationship with both my mother and my first mother-in-law, who both passed away in the same year five years ago. I think both of them, in their own way, gave me advice that I didn’t understand at the time, but I SURE AS HELL DO NOW.  They told me in their own words that,  “Sometimes you have to give some of your children more attention because they need more attention. You can’t always be fair.”

Having been a neglected middle child myself, I am sensitive to the fact  that my own over-attention to the most vocal and needy children in our family, which happens at the moment to be the two oldest, Sam and Sophia,  and the youngest, Cheryl,  is giving short shrift to the seemingly happy, well-adjusted middle kids in our family; Mark and Eva.

Middle kids, by the very nature of their birth order, tend to be easy going and low maintenance.  While their younger siblings are screaming for attention, (and getting it because they are the adorable baby of the family)  they tend to follow  sheepishly and quietly into the foot steps of their trail blazing older siblings. They don’t make a fuss, therefore they don’t get much notice.

This is the case in our family. And I should know better. As I said, I myself, was a neglected middle child. While my mother was wringing her hands over my sisters and their motor-cycle-riding-long-haired-boyfriends, I was solving all my problems alone. When I felt snubbed or left out at school, I didn’t take my gripes to my parents because they had bigger “I-think-my-kid-is-smoking-pot” fish to fry. I was determined to not make the same mistakes as my parents, and guess what? I did.

This past week, both Mark and Eva had their own mini melt downs. They have, in their own way,  expressed to me that their needs are not being met. Mark is struggling in school with some subjects and could use some tutoring. He’s afraid to speak up because he does not want to be a burden. He also feels unrelentlessly picked on by his older brother, Sam,  who does not know when a joke is no longer a joke. Mark needs support. He needs to know that his feelings matter and are heard. I listen and have learned some new vocabulary. For instance, when someone does something particularly offensive, it is called, “really douchy.” I now know that “douchy” is bad.

Eva, for her part, wants to learn how to sew and she wants me to teach her. Long ago I promised her I would, and we even went so far as to buy patterns and material, but the life got away from us and we never got around to it. I was too busy. I neglected my easy going middle child to meet the needs of my ever demanding older and  youngest children. This past week I asked her why she didn’t sign up for the after school fashion design class at school and she replied, “Because I was afraid I would suck at it. All my friends know how to sew and I don’t .” I felt horrible. If I could have crawled into a hole and hid I would have. Instead I vowed to her that I would indeed make good on my promise to teach her to sew and last night we cut out a pattern and this weekend we are going to put it together.

I may be slow, but eventually I get the message. And in the end, hopefully, all of my five children feel special, unique and equally well-attended.

There was a time, not too long ago, when they just adored me. They couldn’t be away from me and shared every funny story and detail about their day. When Eva was little she used to get up in the morning, come out of her room, see me at the end of the long hallway leading up to the kitchen, holler “MOMMY!” and run to me, leaping into my arms. Now she barely speaks to me. I get one word answers at best and the looks… well, if looks could kill …(Even though Eva has friended me on Facebook she has given me strict orders to NEVER write to her or send her a message.)

I guess it doesn’t help that I have turned into my mother with all of those annoying traits and habits  like– speaking all of my thoughts out loud, losing patience with anything having to do with vanity or self-consciousness, not keeping up with or caring when things go in or out of style.  And an inability to speak complete sentences in which I don’t struggle for noun recall  or remember names of people I have known for years.

I suppose I can sympathize with their frustrations with me because I admit to  having the same feelings about my own mother. She always wanted to know what was going on when  I just wanted to be left alone. I now  understand how she must have felt. Still… it is hard to not intervene when you see your children moping around the house, obviously hurting inside. You just have to learn to let them sort things out for themselves and trust that everything is going to turn out all right. In those instances I am never sure what to do. But one thing that I am most certain of, and that is I will always love my children unconditionally, whether they are nice to me or not.

I feel that way now with my youngest stepchild, Cheryl, in her last year of elementary school. I’m burnt out. And I mean it. No, I will not sew wings on T-shirts for the class play. Sorry, can’t make brownies for the school carnival. And no way in hell am I going to another PTA meeting. I’ve had my fill. I’ve paid my dues. I’m done.

I didn’t alway feel this way. There was a time when I was an overly enthusiastic parent who sat on every committee, campaigned for every school ballot measure, drove on every field trip and worked all the bake sales. By my calculations I helped to raise over 100K for my kids’ elementary school. I was a power mom and proud of it. I didn’t spend all that time at my kids’ schools because the principal or teachers needed me. And I didn’t do it because my kids asked me to. I did it for me. I’ll tell you why.

In December of 2003 I decided to fly home to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with my mother. I hadn’t been home for Christmas in years and I thought it would be nice for the kids to see some snow and visit with my mom. We had a great time. We made gingerbread houses and I let my mom put out all the presents and fill the stockings. She loved that. While we were there, she kept doing this thing that she always did that drove me crazy; which resulted in this typical exchange:

Mom: “You know who I saw in the Acme today? Patty McLaughlin. Wasn’t she in your class? Weren’t you on the bowling team together?”
(I was never on the bowling team and I have no recollection of a Patty McLaughlin so you can see where I am going with this story.)
Me: “I don’t remember Patty McLaughlin, Mom. Jane (my sister) was on the bowling team. Not me. Must have been her.”
MoM: “NO! It was you.”
She would protest and try to convince me I was wrong until I gave up and let her have her way. It drove me nuts. I could never understand her need to wax nostalgic about every person that ever entered my life, until … a few weeks later when I finally got it.

After I returned home to California, I was in a video store with Sophia (who was 10 at the time) when who did we run into, but Angie Brown! Angie and Sophia were in kindergarten together and at the time, they were the best of friends. They played together at our house every afternoon. At the end of the school year Angie moved away and we never saw her again. She and her mom were back in town visiting and by chance we ran into them. Angie’s mother and I had a gushy reunion conversation that went something like this:

Me: “Oh my gosh, Angie! You have gotten so tall! I can’t believe how grown up you are!!”
Angie’s Mom: “Sophia, look at you. You look just like your mother.”
Me: “Sophia, do you remember when you and Angie used to play in our wading pool in the front yard?”
Angie’s Mom: “Remember the time you each covered your bodies with green food coloring and it didn’t come off for days?’

You get the idea. Total kid humiliation. As we continued our trip down memory lane I looked at the girls and I could tell by the stricken and bored looks on their faces that they did not recognize or remember each other. On top of that, they were so embarrassed they couldn’t wait to get away. That’s when it hit me. I HAD TURNED INTO MY MOTHER!!! Was I going to shrink and start going to the hair dresser once a week? Would I take up Canasta and become addicted to game shows? What was to become of me? Quick, I had to make penance. I called my mother to apologize for all the years I never understood her need to constantly remind me of my childhood.

The phone rings. Mom answers. “Hello.”
Me: “Hi, Mom. It’s me, Carol.”
Mom: “Who? Jane is that you?”
Me: “No Mom, it’s Carol.”
Mom: “Carol? Hold on. Let me turn down Jeopardy.” (Why she never lowered  the TV before she answered the phone I’ll never know.)
Me: “Mom. I just wanted to tell you about this girl we ran into today. She was a friend of Sophia’s from kindergarten. We hadn’t seen her in years. I couldn’t believe how much she changed. She got really tall. It’s amazing how time flies isn’t it?”
Mom: “Yes it is. When I look back on my life I cannot believe I raised five children. Where did the time go? You know when you kids were small… those were the best years of my life. All those class trips, scouts… school dances (don’t forget bowling tournaments) … those were fun times.”

I decided at that moment that I would let my mother have her memories any way she wanted them and I wouldn’t contradict her. I also realized that all the effort my mother put forth to raise us wasn’t just for us. It was for her. She did it for herself, so that she could have the pleasure of enjoying her children. So let that be a lesson to you. The next time you are gritting your teeth to rush little Susie or little Johnny to, “Get your cleats on and get in the car. We are going to be late for soccer”, only to discover that you have driven to the wrong field and it was your turn to bring snack and you forgot; just remember this– These are the best years of your life.

Now at the risk of making an overly sentimental story even more so, I feel I must tell you that that Christmas of ‘03 was my mother’s last. She died the following November. At her funeral I watched grown men and women sob when they approached me with stories of my mother they recalled from their childhood. One man in particular who was very close to my mother when she was the head of the church youth group told me,”Your mother was a great influence on me. You will never know how much she meant to me.”

Never underestimate the impact you can have on someone else’s child.

So the next time you are asked to co-chair a school fundraiser or organize a committee — do it. Do it not just for the kids. Do it for yourself.