I'm finally the proverbial Skippy peanut butter in the sandwich generation of my life. I'm squished between my two teenagers, twenty-something man-child, and my aging parents, and oh, how I wish I was back at the no-sleep, screaming baby stage, when all I could do was nurse and complain about being sleep-deprived. As tough as that stage was, this one is way tougher. I'm getting it from both ends.
While I am grateful for every moment and every holiday spent with my parents, having them in tandem with my children all under my roof for the holidays is very, very challenging. I find myself confronted with ghosts of holidays past - thinking back to the "good old days" when my parents were in charge and functioned as full-fledged adults. These days, they are helpless, it seems. They depend on me for everything - from accompaniment to places they need to go, to basic instruction on how to set the table, to simple reminders to take care of themselves (bathe, dress, exercise, stick to their diets).
My diabetic father eyes the pastries I baked, looking for an opportunity to sneak a cookie. "I bought you sugar-free cookies," I remind him. "But those look so good," he said sadly, grabbing a chip as soon as I turn my back. I know how much sugar I used to make them--I made them for the kids. These will make him sick. And all the diet goodies I bought him don't look half as enticing as the "baddies." But he is the proverbial child with his hand in the cookie jar, and I feel like I'm parenting my father.
Despite their good intentions, my parents seem to be ever underfoot, standing in doorways as I navigate the kitchen with hot soup, hovering over my shoulder as I wash dishes or retrieve email. When I walk with them, I have to watch over them, much like I did when my children were very young, making sure that they don't trip on potholes in the street or stumble over bumps in the sidewalk. Only, with my children, I looked forward to a day when they would grow up to be strong and steady on their feet. And now they are somewhat grown, quite strong, and with their newfound independence, my children come at me with guns blazing. Meanwhile, on the other side of the sandwich, every bit as emotionally strong-willed, demanding and insistent as they ever were when they were the people that kept ME from tripping and falling, my parents just seem to get physically weaker and less able to process the simplest suggestion.
As I watch my children balk at my suggestions and input, I see myself balking at my parent's suggestions--just as I did when I was my kids' age. "Why don't you try to become a teacher?" my mother, a longtime teacher, suggests. "That would be a good job for you. You'd be a wonderful teacher."
"Mom, I'm a marketing consultant, not a teacher," I inform her, just barely holding in the desire to scream.
Both sets of "wonder bread" have their own ways of doing things, and neither seems to value or discern that I, squished in the middle, have developed systems and boundaries that have worked for me. My household has its protocols--and to date those systems have worked--the napkin and forks go on the left, knives and spoons on the right, we make sure not to stop up the toilet--and we wait until I can free myself up when I'm taking 2 badly-needed minutes for myself. No, Mom, I do not have a clothesline, I have a clothes dryer - and, no, Mom, it won't eat up your support hose, I promise. Here's a net bag. You've never heard of a net bag. Oh, never mind!
I want SO badly to be a good daughter! And I feel horribly guilty that I'm failing miserably!
Honoring one's parents is a commandment and I, as a religiouswoman, am working really really hard to comply. But, G-d, this is one lollapalooza of a tough commandment! I know I should be doing things for my parents with joy, knowing that someday, those same children who are slamming doors in my face, will face the same commandment and remember not to cast me away in my old age. Ya think?
Comments