When my children were small and my life was a sleep-deprived struggle to navigate the chaos and tantrums of daily life, all I could dream of was the day when I could leave the baby years behind and finally get my life back.
Now my children are almost fully fledged adults. They drive, they make their own breakfast, they have their own plans and lives. But the freedom I envisaged for so long has turned out to be elusive, as, just at the time my teens may need me less, it is my parents who need me more.
I’m part of the sandwich generation
My parents are both now well into their 80s. There is an increasing number of doctor’s appointments to worry about, mysterious chest pains or dizzy spells to lose sleep over, and the less tangible sadness of seeing them every time a little bit frailer, a fraction less in charge.
And while my teens may physically need me less, their financial needs have grown exponentially. Now there is college to be paid for, gas to fill up their cars, contributions toward rent and phone bills, vacations I want them to go on with their friends, and concerts I want them to experience.
As we are living longer than ever, and having children later, more and more of us find ourselves part of the sandwich generation, worrying simultaneously about ageing parents while supporting our not-quite-grown-up children.
For my husband and me, it means we won’t be getting a glimpse of a carefree life anytime soon. It used to be a baby’s cry that would have us stumbling out of bed in the small hours, grumbling and half-crazed with lack of sleep. Now it is the fear of the dreaded 3 a.m. phone call that keeps us awake, that could equally come from an older parent relaying a panicked visit to the ER or a desperate teenager, stranded at the side of the road with a flat tyre.
I’m not getting any younger
At the same time, additional grit in the sandwich filling is the fact that my husband and I, too, are not getting any younger.
When we had babies, we were young, fit, and full of energy. Our young bodies and minds could cope with sleepless nights and late-night dashes to the ER. We had no competing claims on being needed. Now our middle-aged bodies and minds are tug-of-war in two directions. My husband is now completely grey; he ignores his rising blood pressure, I ignore an aching hip, disobedient hormones, and brain fog. Always being ‘on call’ takes its toll. We can never truly switch off.
We can’t throw caution to the wind, turn off our phones, or go off-grid for a day; there may be an old or a young person who needs us.
I carry a lot of guilt
There is also the guilt. Mother’s guilt and daughter’s guilt. However much I do for my children, could I do more? Am I a good enough mom, am I too much a friend, not enough a parent, should I have cried in front of the kids, should their dad and I have argued in front of them? What about the time I got blackout drunk at a party and they saw me puke in the driveway?
An endless list of self-flagellation that every parent will recognise. At the same time, the daughter’s guilt. Am I visiting my parents enough? Am I calling enough? Should I be running daily casseroles over to them? Should I be insisting they wear a personal alarm that directly alerts the emergency services? And if I’m honest, I feel guilt at the anger I feel when I see them getting older and weaker. Anger at them for allowing themselves to age, allowing themselves to one day be taken from us.
And yet, and yet. Like all things, there is also a bittersweet joy nestled in the discomfort. There is nothing like the feeling of having our three generations all together in that moment. The three boys, son, dad, and grandad watching a cricket match. The women, my daughter, I, and my mom watching a movie and crying at the same part.
In these moments, there is such utter joy and love. In these moments, the sandwich has never tasted so sweet .
