They call us the sandwich generation. Those of us who had children later in life and are thus caring for preschool-aged kids and at least one elderly parent.
My youngest is 2.5, my mum is 79. Hello sandwich!
This was brought into sharp contrast yesterday.
Missy had to get more grommets so I left Gromit in the care of my mum and headed to the hospital. The surgery all went well (I didn't even cry) and we were heading home about 3 hours later.
On the way, I called mum to see how everything was just to be told that her doctor wants her to go to emergency because he thinks she had a mini-stroke. Great.
So the winemaker knocks off work a little early, picks up Gromit. I get home, dump Missy and turn around to take mum to emergency at a different hospital.
Two hospitals in one day. Is that some kind of record?
Naturally, mum and I sat in the waiting room for about three hours (actually, I tell a lie because I nicked off for a bit to go to the Target toy sale and pick up something for us to eat).
One thing about emergency rooms waiting areas - they are great placed for people watches like mum and me. We saw a man being escorted in by the cops, a young girl with a broken arm and a entourage of family and an elderly bloke who, apparently, knew what needed to be done to save the world from the idiots.
Anyway, once we got in, it was pretty quick. The doctor (who looked about 12 but spoke of a wife, so I guess not) got mum's history - and she's a walking dispensary - did some neurological testing, whacked on a heart monitor and proclaimed, yes, looks like a mini-stroke but we won't know for sure until she can get a CT scan next week. He wasn't too concerned about immediate risks because the episode was minor, so that's the good news.
Four-and-a-half hours later, we were heading home - 10 hours after I first trekked into town to my first hospital of the day.
Oh - should I mentioned this all happened on my first day of wage-slave freedom?