Approaching a decade birthday I sometimes feel that I’m taking a slow walk to the gallows. Approaching the same birthday I sometimes feel I’m leaping into ecstasy, exaltation, euphoria, the essence. Pulled. In. Two. Directions.
Simultaneously, I’m enduring the most isolating stretch of parenting – shepherding a teenager. Maybe it’s not the most isolating – could there be a tougher stretch upcoming? – but it feels that way.
My parents are elderly. I’m fortunate (gross understatement) that not only are my parents alive, but we are close, they are flourishing, they live near by, love my son and are people I admire and respect. I’m grateful, thrilled, glad.
Sometimes I am distressed, distraught, discouraged, despondent. Simply put, looking at the beginnings of old age, loving parents who are in old age, loving a child who is (as he should be) scaring the living daylights out of me while blowing my mind with his wisdom, wit and wonder, feels like a leap into the wild blue yonder. AND like being smashed between two pieces of firm bread.
Guess what, there is a name for people like me. We are a demographic. Of course we are. The sandwich generation.