Miss O finally turned seven this past week. It feels like we’ve been celebrating for months, which we have, because our events have been so disjointed and spread out this year. I’m all for an ongoing celebration, but this felt like it was getting out of hand. I’m already accused of being excessive when it comes to birthdays, but you’re only seven once, ya know?
My family is all about a big reveal. It was rare, growing up, to not get a wildly dramatic, completely over-the-top, YouTube video worthy gift reveal. There was no You Tube back then, but my parents knew how to unbox before there even was such a thing. When my mother invited us to France and England for two weeks of our summer, I knew telling Miss O would be no different.
I’m part of the sandwich generation, which is far less tasty than it sounds. Rather than indicating that we solely subsist on anything that fits within two slices of bread, hopefully gluten-free in my case, it means that as we aged into becoming caregivers of our children, our parents simultaneously aged into needing various stages of elder care, often requiring us to fill both roles at the same time and literally becoming sandwiched between two roles requiring us to care for others. If you’re like me, you may not even see it coming until you are firmly in the middle of it.
There’s something about hearing the words “date night,” that make my skin crawl. Nothing will make me say no to an outing faster. You’d think hubs would learn by now that it’s not the best approach, but hey, we’ve only been together 15 years. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with Hubs. It’s the amount of pressure and anxiety that mounts each time he looks at me with those hopeful eyes and the weight those words carry.
Sometimes I forget who I am. It sounds silly, but the older I get the easier it is to do. It’s not like being stricken with amnesia where everything goes away all at once. It’s more like a gradual ebbing of pieces of my self-awareness. When I finally realize it’s happened, I can generally pinpoint what part of me has faded. Then I start to wonder if it’s worth reviving.
When we booked our return trip to Disney this summer, my only questions were whether we’d repeat Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party and if I’d really humor Miss O with a reservation at Cinderella’s Royal Table for a character meal since she’d already met all the Princesses. I should have known her love of Harry Potter was growing exponentially as we worked our way through each book, followed by its movie version, at a fairly steady pace. Lately any hint of vacation elicited an exuberant cry of “Universal!” from Miss O. Perhaps I needed one more round of consideration for our upcoming trip.
I don’t know about you, but for me it’s been one of those weeks where more often than I thought possible, I needed to pause for a moment, close my eyes and wish I was anywhere but where I am right now. It’s just been one crisis after another, none of them terribly real, but all of them incredibly stressful and migraine-inducing. Work, home, family – all of it one big cluster of insanity. As I sip my warm peppermint tea out of my favorite Chip mug, I realize part of the ritual is the mug itself and part is the memory and warm feelings it holds.