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Carol
I am praying for both of you, dstock and nina! It's not easy, I know...! The guilt, the worry, the lack of help from family... don't get me started!
It is not a pretty picture and we "sandwich" generation kids have a tough row to hoe.
I am so overwhelmed and don't know how much longer I can keep this up. My mother lives in her own home and cannot cook for herself or really groom herself. I am over her house twice a day (before work and after work). My siblings do not help out, but just cause confusion.
They call this a sandwich generation (rasing your children on top of caring for a senior parent).
I only can try to put things into place when I get to be an elderly person because I do not want to put this burden on my children. This is such an ruff life to go through and especially being young and want to taste LIFE.
In the meantime, I continued to drop by residences for the elderly and noticed many of them behaved just like my sons did before hitting puberty. At first, I thought people do regress mentally as they get older. But then I realized my mother, like Michael Jackson, didn't really have a childhood. Instead of toys on Three Kings Day (aka "Little Christmas"), she got school supplies and uniforms. Play, the arena where children develop their cognitive skills, wasn't allowed. Neither were friends. She simply cooked, cleaned, and learned other skills that would eventually make her a desirable wife and mother at the age of 14. It became clear to me, then, that I was dealing with a human being that didn't get a chance to completely develop and predestined to a life of poverty, multiple pregnancies (16), and regular beatings at the hands of drunken part-time husbands and shadow fathers. Still, she scrounged around long enough and taught us the value of education and importance of self-reliance. I resented many things she did to us because I didn't know where they came from and there are no excuses for it, like collective punishment as a preventive measure. But compared to other "thugs in training" she did a fairly good job and kept me from ending up dead or in jail next to a burly, sweaty six-footer called Flaco.
I was grateful and loved her to death, but the reality was that she was my guest, those were MY children, and that was MY house complete with norms and individual responsibilities designed to maintain the structure necessary for overall peace, stability, balance, and a modicum of sanity. The ubiquitous "I'm your mother!," a built-in excuse to keep doing whatever she wanted, no longer worked; and she knew it. She had to finish growing up and maturing along with my children, the problem was putting everything in a language she'd understand and accept. I had to be consistent with the TLC if she was to get with the program and see me a a self-respecting man that will not put up with rebellious behavior -- even from his mother.
To make a long story short, we have a much different relationship from the ones she has with my sisters; a rowdy bunch of chickens chattering in a churchyard who rarely listen, let alone help anyone else. (You either love them or leave them alone, which explains why I avoid family reunions.) Mom lives in a senior citizen residence not far from my home in Kingsbridge, no longer curses, overdoses on bingo every Sunday, volunteers at a soup kitchen for people living with HIV/AIDS twice a week, and the daycare centers in her neighborhood wish she'd be available more often. She has grown; she has matured; and she is what she has always been in my heart: a goddess. All it took was a little tough love, patience, guidance, and mutual understanding.
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