I spent my entire childhood and teen years fantasizing about being rich, mostly because I wasn’t.  I spent my 20s scratching and clawing my way into an industry that overpays absurdly.  By the time I hit 35 and became a mom, making money mattered significantly less to me than leaving a legacy.  It was, however, not so easy to shake the identity I had crafted in my head as an affluent, power-earner. 

I am in the process of redefining what matters in my life and how I will help my family achieve our lofty financial goals (annual trips to Australia, retirement funds in excess of $2MM, paid-in-full mortgage, education fund) while not abandoning my marriage relationship or my ever-burgeoning mother role. 

Mine is a journey of balancing a would-be hippy, liberal, rage-against-the-machine, bra-burning, why-do-people-suck, everyone-deserves-a-second-chance soul with my shrewd, been-there, burned-too-many-times, boot-strapping, don’t-ask-me-where-I-went-to-high-school pride.  Somewhere in my thirty-something years, I hope I’ve learned a thing or two about how to be a responsible, evolved, liberated, fun, inspired, compassionate woman.

That’s my hope, anyway.

Someday, my net-worth won’t determine my self-worth.  Today is just not that day.  Tomorrow isn’t looking very good either.

“SugarMama” was a joke/goal label I fantisized about in my early 20s. (Don’t judge, I am a product of early rap and 80’s cheese.  Big shoulderpads and white Reebok high-tops were part of my working girl  fantasy.   I have always wanted to make my own way, depend on myself, and be financially/socially successful. 

My maiden name was “Schmidt.” 

Thus, “SCHugarMama.” 

Let’s do this damn thing.