I thought my sandwich years were behind me. These new sandwich years are not the sort you put into a brown paper sack for your kids. It’s where the kids and the parents begin trading places on the “need help with things” scale. It’s a slightly sinister presence lurking about in the background waiting to pop up in the form of a fall, an illness, a conversation that does not make any sense at all no matter how often you repeat yourself. The progeny present ever more complex problems that can’t be solved with a band aid and a kiss on the forehead.

Life presents you with choices. Not all of them pleasant ones. I am not talking about whether I want chipotle mayonnaise or Dijon mustard. Do I fly to California and spend time with my mother? She doesn’t seem to want me around. How close is too close for my kids? Or too far?

Me, I’m taking refuge in meditation, yoga and prayer. I find them all incredibly calming and useful in their turn. Also, my trusty declutter calendar which is making sense of the stuff I have – I have a lot of stuff.

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