Sometimes I feel like bologna on wry

© Jkstudio@aol.com | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

© Jkstudio@aol.com | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

I had one of those “aha” moments the other day when I found mold in a piece of frozen bread. Isn’t that why we freeze bread in the first place? To keep those gross green spores from invading our otherwise pristine baked goods?

It’s a metaphor, I realized. My life is sandwiched between the beginning and the end. I’m somewhere between that fresh, hot-out-of-the-oven, mouth-watering, buttery baguette, and a dried-up end of old pumpernickel that you’ve been saving in the back of the freezer for a science experiment. And the mold is … ignore the mold. It doesn’t work in my metaphor, but it was gross and I thought I’d share.

How did this happen? It seems just a minute ago that I was in the middle of elementary school, and now my son is there. Wasn’t it just yesterday that my mom was the one running errands for her parents and schlepping the kids around town? Why am I driving carpool? Where are all the adults? Shouldn’t there be a grownup here to pass my overflowing plate of stresses and responsibilities along to?

I read a study recently that says the average person will spend 17 years taking care of a child and 18 years taking care of a parent. But my parents have been taking care of me for 44 years now and I’ve been “helping out” with them for, well, I’m planning to start next week. Which means they’ve got to live a good long time if we’re ever going to even things up statistically.

Again, I’m the grown-up? When did I make the switch from having mom to cut the crusts off my bread to being the one making sure we had peanut butter in the cabinet and cheese in the fridge?

And when did my membership shift from Generation X (by marriage–it counts) to the Sandwich Generation? Did I miss a meeting? I’m definitely missing some brain cells. The other day, I was driving away in my car when it dawned on me that my 8-year-old son was still sitting in our living room, home alone, since my husband had gone out to pick up his mother.

I know–from friends I’d like to keep, who shall therefore remain nameless–that this kind of “whoops, I forgot Johnny” incident happens to people with lots of kids all the time. But, let’s face it, they have extra children, so leaving one of them behind by accident is only a minor disaster.

As an only child, Koss is our not just our only contribution to the future of the planet, he’s also our great white hope for the future (a.k.a. our retirement plan), so if something were to happen to him, well, let’s just say that wouldn’t be chopped liver.

Although I think he’s caviar, or whatever that really rare and precious Japanese fish is that people pay millions of dollars for–he’s an open-faced sandwich, with no siblings to keep the ingredients together. When eventually it’s his turn to juggle that massive Dagwood sandwich made up of his kids on one side, us (his parents) on the other and him jammed in the middle, he’ll have no one to help him.

This does not bode well for me, ’cause he’s already killed a fish and lost a dog.

Another “aha” moment: We may have to adopt a nurse someday.

If life is a sandwich, which kind are you? Tell us at email. For more of Leslie’s columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.
Originally appeared in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on October 5, 2007.

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