How apropos the term “Sandwich Generation” is when describing what has transpired. Not only is life suddenly full of baloney, but I seem to be coming in contact with a lot of stuff that smells like old cheese. Okay, I’m just a wee bit selfish but come on, I have finally been emancipated from the squatters (No details because you wouldn’t believe half of it anyway) I lovingly (right) call my children and now have been willingly sold into slavery a second time. I think raising kids is just the prep course. You learn the patience with your kids that you need when dealing with the oldies.
I live 400 miles from my parents who are not in tip-top shape at the time I write this, and have been shielded from any responsibility in dealing with them. My older brother, sister-in-law and stepmother have shouldered the load, and for this they deserve a thousand gold stars and many thanks. But distance is no defense from the rights, lefts and uppercuts of life. Many of you may know I was recently married again, and darn, if she doesn’t have aging parents too. What??? Sometimes trials have a long-reaching, wicked jab that’s impossible to dodge and God has no problem (dang that Internet) finding me.
As newlyweds go we had a pretty good run. We managed a honeymoon in Italy and seven months of playing serious kissy face before being recruited for a second tour of duty. I must admit though, I had fair warning. When we told my wife’s parents we were getting married the first words out of her mother’s mouth were, “Well, he’s going to have to help your father with the Christmas lights.” At the time I wasn’t sure if this was a statement or a stipulation.
Sorry to cut this short but have to run out for some adult baby wipes and an industrial-sized bottle of Milk of Magnesia. I hope my children are reading this. Payback’s just around the corner. Oh, I am so looking forward to getting old.
K.G.
