I'm The Meat and Cheese

Doing research on behalf of my mom and aunt as they contemplated care for my 89-year-old grandmother, I came across numerous articles and books referring to their dilemma as being a member of the sandwich generation. I envisioned this generational conflict as providing care for their aging parents as well as looking out for their own children. My mom and aunt don't have children in their home, but they are still very active in my cousins and my lives as well as well as in our children's lives. My mom states the generational crisis has evolved more into a big mac over a sandwich with many layers of generational needs.

The premise of the sandwich generation theory is that you have a parent with child like needs and then you have your own children with their needs, resulting in pressure and stress on the middle members. At my dad's worst, I found myself feeling a little bit of strain as a slice of sandwich meat, but it was short lived and fortunately my dad did not have to suffer in his child like status for long. My mom is in great health, active and quite independent. I consoled myself that dealing with this type of life pressure would be decades away.

However, this weekend, I've met a new problem with being in the sandwich, er, uh Big Mac Generation. My mom is far from the infantile composite, but she's given me a new conflict - Her teenage years. Last Thursday, on her way home from Tulsa, she stopped by my office for a surprise visit. Much like a trembling teen coming to her mom for permission, she hesitantly mentioned she was going on a date. You know, so far, my mom's been a good "teen", yes, she's went to a few too many late night parties, and maybe drank a little much here and there, but relatively has done well, always calling to check in and letting me know ahead of time if she is going out of town.

But, dating, hmmm... I've told her numerous times, I am totally ok with it, and I am. Being the great and encouraging daughter that I am, I reassured her that she had my approval. Besides like her teenage counterparts, she's going to do what she wants anyway, right? Then she confessed that actually this "date" and her have already been on a sort of date, a fish fry with friends. Oh, ok, I say. I guess she didn't need my permission after all. The confessions kept coming ...we've talked on the phone a lot too. I feel my muscles tense a little in my neck, oh, ok, I say again. I'm waiting for the "quick weekend in vegas" confession. That didn't happen, thank goodness. Well, have a good time I said, where are you going for this date, I ask in my responsible parent voice. He is coming over to the house for dinner. It's his birthday, she informs me nonchalantly. Trying not to gasp out loud, I feel like a mom hearing that her daughter is going out with a guy who drives a van. Keeping a reassuring smile, I say great, have a good time. Let me know how it goes.

Fast forward to this morning:

phone call to my mom

She answers with almost a giggle, she gives a sheepish hello.

What's up I ask her, not wanting to pry.

Just putting my roses in a vase.

How nice, I say. How was dinner?

Wonderful, we talked and visited until well past our bed time.

How nice, I say again (I'm out of profound comments at this time)

He called this morning to say he had a great evening.

How nice, I say once again.

We chat about her plans for this week, she's going to Louisiana all week for work, thank goodness. Who knows what that boy with the van might have up his sleeve this week?

I knew being a victim of the sandwich generation was going to be hard, but no one warned me about this. My mom always said when I grew up I'd get paid back for my teenage years, I assumed she was referring to my children. Guess I was wrong. I think I just got blobbed by the special sauce on my layer of the Big Mac. Quick someone put a hold on the pickles and the onions!