Now, I realize I am in the sandwich, part of it, one with the sandwich, layered in between my two kids and my aging, declining father. And feeling guilty about all of it, so maybe instead of the ham I am the Kosher salami. No matter.
My kids are on the top. They are like grainy, dense, whole-wheat bread--a little sweet, a bit savory, plenty nutty, and sometimes, a bit hard to digest. My son is obsessed with You Tube, girls, classic rock, and lacrosse, not necessarily in that order. My daughter yearns for height, boobs, and straighter hair, lives to read inane teen "chick lit," and wants to spend all her time with her friends, be it in person, online, or on her cell phone. They are both alternately needy and stand-offish, stubborn, clingy, selfish, and giving.
My father, who just did a face plant while tripping on the flat sidewalk near his house in Washington, DC, has turned into a slice of Wonder Bread. He is 80 years old and suffers from moderate dementia. He is witty and charming and unbelievable intelligent, but I can no longer have a cogent conversation with the man. He prattles weekly on the phone and the weather and all the "things" he needs to do (putter around his house looking for my stepmother and re-reading the New York Times). He rarely remembers my kids, what I do, or where I am. When we see him he is all smiles and graciousness until a waiter is late with the wine or one of the kids can't hear him, or he is overtired, and then he is snarly and grumpy, much like a two-year-old. My stepmother, who is a good deal younger than my father, runs his life and has given up much of hers, including a satisfying career, to take care of him. Thank goodness. I couldn't do it.
So that leaves my sister and me, the ham and the cheese, the lox and the onions--ah, the metaphors are marvelous, but what really sucks is that being stuck in the middle like a slim slice of ham just lying there doesn't achieve much. It is just is.
