photo by mae mu on unsplash
They call us the “Sandwich Generation”, and I feel it.
Let’s break down this metaphor.
The first piece of bread: Our parents.
They are aging. Both sets of parents, mine and Joel’s. And while they are still active and living happily independent lives, we have observed the sands of time running more quickly through the hourglass. The biggest shift took place when they turned seventy. They are all in their mid-to-late seventies now, and it is like the hour hand on the clock of life ticked into a completely different time zone. Eighty is right around the corner. The aging process has accelerated.
And while I expect they will be around for a decent amount of time, the changes have been noticeable.
Noticeable enough to open up conversations with them and with our siblings about the future needs and care of our parents.
Noticeable enough that seeing them after being apart for a period of time causes an inner gasp at first glance.
Noticeable enough that we hear ourselves saying, “Mom and Dad have really aged.”
Noticeable enough that we feel a slight lump in our throats as we anticipate the changes that will take place between now and the next time we are together.
Noticeable enough that saying goodbye is becoming more difficult.
Living overseas compounds the heavy emotions. The gap between visits falls in the realm of years. Sometimes, one year, as in the case with my parents. We have been able to see them more frequently, which has given us more time to absorb the aging process. We saw Joel’s parents this past May at our daughter, Sydney’s, university graduation. It had been over two years. And we were taken aback. There have been all kinds of medical updates from both sets of parents regularly, but nothing could really prepare us to see the physical changes in real life.
Our parents are not at the point where they need us to be at arm’s length, paying bills, and ensuring they are being shuffled to and from appointments. Yet, we know that day is coming soon. Joel’s brother lives in the same area as their parents, and my sister, while not in the same city or state, is, at least, in the same country. We all know that when the day comes when my parents need more supervision and care, my sister will likely be the one moving close by. Joel and his brother have their own conversations about one day. And while I don’t see that day coming any time soon, wisdom tells us to be prepared.
The second piece of bread: Our children.
This piece of bread is not the same as the other (we are a very eclectic kind of sandwich). Where I would easily call our parents a nice slice of your run-of-the-mill white Wonder Bread™, our kids are more of a Dave’s Killer Bread™.
We have a twenty-three-year-old starting her career, a twenty-one-year-old in her final year of university and preparing to get married next year, a nineteen-year-old who is in his second year of university, and we have a ten-year-old gutting it out in grade five. We have nuts, seeds, grains, and all kinds of textures in this slice of bread.
Having older children who are beginning to enter the portal of independence has been more emotional than I expected. I am proud of them. Joel and I are their biggest cheerleaders. We believe in them, and we see greatness, even in its raw form, in each one of them. Parenting older children is rewarding in a totally different way. We have become their coaches. And while I love this season tremendously, I hate feeling so far away when life sideswipes them. I want to be there. I want to fix. I want to throw off my coach hat and jump into a helicopter so I can swoop down and rescue them.
I worked hard not to be a helicopter parent when they were young, but I find myself wanting to slip into that often. I think, in part, it is because their challenges are more complicated and grown-up. We are not talking about forgetting lunch boxes and permission slips. We are spectators of our children making big decisions, and praying they make them with wisdom and not with emotion. We try to be good listeners, but I know my opinion has overstepped, which has prompted a necessary apology.
The letting go phase is both amazing and messy. I love having young adult children to hang out with and talk to. They are fun, insightful, and truly enjoyable. The messy parts come with learning to keep my coach hat on and avoid the helicopter.
Had God not given us one of the most wonderful and precious surprises ten years ago, Joel and I would be empty nesters right now. But God knows me better than I know myself, and Lord knows, I am not ready to be an empty nester quite yet.
Part of that nutty, grain goodness of this second slice of bread is our son, Jasper. Having a ten-year-old in our fifties keeps us active and young at heart. Having a ten-year-old on the autism spectrum pushes us to keep learning and discovering all the unique facets of parenting.
Jasper still needs us in a very practical way, day in and day out. His siblings do not. Joel and I have one foot in the young adult world and one foot in grade school. Our parenting role is on a broad spectrum, which I would not trade for anything in the world.
The insides of the sandwich: Joel and me.
PB and J, a BLT, Turkey and Mayo, Philly Cheesesteak, Meatball and Mozzarella, you can take your pick on the insides of this sandwich. It really doesn’t matter. The point is, Joel and I are one or all of the above squeezed between these two pieces of bread.
And it’s not like our personal lives are perfectly sane and in order.
My hormones are in constant chaos. I’m perimenopausal—like, for real—with body changes I’m trying to come to grips with. My skin and my bones are betraying me, and I am the proud owner of an AM and PM weekly pill organizer (I have supplements and HRT [Hormone Replacement Therapy] to keep in order). When I’m not fighting brain fog, I’m asking myself big life questions, like “What do I want to be when I grow up?” One would assume I had already discovered the answer to that question a long time ago, but I’m still pondering. I think the crux of the issue here is not so much figuring out what I want to be as who I want to become. And how am I doing with all of that?
I honestly don’t have much time to sit around and think about big questions like this. There is too much to do in the twenty-four-hour day to gaze out of the window and ponder such things. Every now and then (like two o’clock in the morning), my brain will buzz with deep soul-searching questions, but then that train of thought quickly derails into the needs of our kids and the needs of our parents.
Joel and I are still young enough and have the physical and emotional margin to carry the responsibilities in our hands. While stretched from one piece of bread to the other in this sandwich of ours, we have capacity. While we are not youngins anymore, we are nowhere near retirement. We believe our greatest days are ahead of us, and we keep pushing forward.
I don’t have any answers or solutions to the “Sandwich Generation” dilemma. This is reality. This is the stuff many of us grapple with on an ongoing basis. We can’t rewrite the past to circumvent the present, and we can’t hide our heads in the sand either. We have to live in this moment…this day…this sandwich.
Because of this, gratitude is essential. Gratitude for time. Gratitude for presence. Gratitude for each and every phone call, WhatsApp message, school project, and opportunity, regardless of length, we get to spend with each part of this crazy sandwich. Because time, right now, is a gift. It is precious. It is fleeting. And it is the giver of moments we will cherish forever.
The sandwich may feel overwhelming at times. Balancing the emotional tug of war on the inside can become a lot, but remember…time. Time is the giver. God holds time in his hands. He is the giver of every moment we get. Let us not take for granted any of these best days of our lives.
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