It is late, and I am tired. My infant son’s cries from the back seat had finally died down from howls to whimpers to peaceful sighs. Those late night car rides were just as relaxing for me as they were for Connor. Both of us were lulled by the thrum of the engine, the flicker of blinking lights on wet pavement, the occasional shoop-shoop of wipers. The car was the one place where I could count on peace between us.

As my son grew, so did his seat in the car. At two, he’d sing along to the nursery rhymes in the CD player, grinning at me in the rear view mirror as he clapped to the playful beat. He’d practice his words on me, pointing to objects to which I’d provide names.

At five, he was promoted to passenger side rear seat, riding high in his new booster seat, watching over his baby brother in the infant carrier next to him. He’d happily retrieve dropped bottles and binkies and sound out street signs on the way to school, giving me a high-five from the back seat every time he read a word correctly.

By second-grade he’d outgrown all car seats, and having learned to read silently, had long since stopped shouting out words to me. He was a quiet kid, but in the car, when he wasn’t reading, he’d talk. About his school day, his friends, his favorite song on the radio.

Before long, he was sitting next to me in the front passenger seat, his younger brother and baby sister taking up the back. It was at this point that Connor took over as car D.J., and we began talking about our shared love of music, specifically the lyrics. He’d play his favorite songs for me and tell me about his favorite bands. And I, in turn, would give him a taste of the ’70s and ’80s, instilling, if not a love, at least a strong appreciation for “good music” like Pink Floyd, Journey and Michael Jackson. Conversations about music led to other topics; school, friends, even girls. Serious subjects were saved for car rides, too; relationships, divorce, sibling rivalry.

I’ve learned more about Connor, and his brother and sister, driving in the car, than I have anywhere else. I can tell how well they’re getting along by the seat they choose. When there is tension between them, Jack will lift the third row seat and sit alone. When the oldest and youngest are getting along, six year-old Ella will request that he sit next to her rather than in front by me. Their body language speaks too: When the boys are getting along, Connor will turn his head to talk over the seat back, and Jack will lean forward against his safety belt to listen.

As a single parent, car rides have given me a glimpse into my kids’ lives when I’m not with them. They point out the places they’ve been, the restaurants they want to try, where their dad takes them for pizza.

Car rides are also where I’ve learned whom my kids’ are hanging out with, and the real reason I always offer to serve as taxi on the weekends. I learn about the type of music they’re listening to, who is doing well in school, which boy likes which girl. It’s all there, right inside those four doors. Fifteen years of talks, music, laughter, peaceful quiet and even sometimes, tears.

It is late, and I am tired. Connor has just sent me a text asking me to pick him up from his friend’s house, up the street and around the corner. It is 11 pm. Curfew. As I pull out of the garage, I am reminded of all the car ride memories that I hold dear…

The six month old infant snuggled in his car seat on the way to the babysitter.

The five year-old kindergartner dressed in his crisp white uniform shirt and blue shorts, ready to begin his school career.

The ten year-old soccer player, he and his teammates crammed like sardines into my minivan after the big game, dirt on their knees, sweat soaking their shirts, huge grins on their faces.

The fourteen-year old high school freshman, in black blazer and pink tie, the color of his date’s homecoming dress.

I pull into the driveway and walk around to the passenger side. Connor comes out and, seeing the driver’s seat empty, climbs behind the wheel to drive his mom home. I watch as my oldest son carefully navigates our subdivision streets and wonder silently at where the years have gone.

Just days before my youngest son was born, I was out shopping and I spotted an absolute must-have for our family’s newest addition. It was a little blue onesie that read, “Mommy’s New Man.” I laughed so hard that I actually had a contraction or two. (They weren’t enough to actually do anything, but they reminded me that the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight.)

I took home that must-have onesie and hung it up with the rest of his tiny clothes. I could hardly wait to see my Little Man wearing it. (In truth, I could hardly wait to see him. Period.)

Labor and delivery should have been a piece of cake this third time around, but things didn’t exactly go as planned. Things ended with a quite unexpected emergency c-section. Not exactly my first choice, but since a healthy baby was the end goal, I adjusted my plans.

On the operating table, just moments before they were planning to cut me open, my doctor casually asked if I was interested in getting my tubes tied, you know, while she was in there anyway.

I was stunned. Since having a c-section wasn’t even on our radar, my husband and I had never discussed it. I looked around for Eric, but the doctor said, “We had to ask him to step out. He’ll be allowed back in just before the birth. Now about that tubal ligation…”

I’d already been in labor for 21 hours. Now I was strapped to a

table, exhausted and more terrified than I’d ever been in my life.

Not exactly the best time to be making life-altering decisions.

“Just get the baby out safely,” I said through gritted teeth.

Five minutes later, Nathan Samuel was born, healthy and huge at nine pounds one ounce. None of his siblings had weighed over seven and a half pounds. No wonder I’d needed a c-section.

About a week later, I was relaying the drama to my sister. When I got to the part about possibly getting my tubes tied, Eric said, “Whoa, I didn’t know about that. Why didn’t you do it?”

“How could I get my tubes tied without even talking to you first?” I said.

Eric shrugged. “We’d already agreed that Nathan would be our last baby. I would have been fine with it.”

“I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind when the doctor gave me the option,” I reminded him.

“I know, Honey, it’s OK,” he said. “But it just would have been one less thing to worry about, you know, since we know for sure we’re done having kids.”

For sure? No more babies? Ever?

The thought made me just a little bit sad.

The next two years went by in a blur of breast feeding, diaper changing and not a whole lot of sleeping. Nathan was a joy in every way, and I was too busy enjoying him to think too much about any future babies.

But the Christmas after Nathan turned two, I was holding my six-month-old nephew, Josh, and I felt an all-too-familiar tug on my heart.

The tug said, “Come on, admit it. You miss the baby phase.”

And I had to confess that I did. For the next year, every time a friend announced that she was expecting, I felt the tug. When I shopped for big boy clothes for Nathan, I’d glance longingly at the baby department, wondering what precious must-haves must be waiting for some lucky mom to take home. And when I held someone else’s baby, I couldn’t help thinking, “Maybe just one more…”

I never voiced the secret longing to my husband. He’d made it clear that he was “too old” to have any more kids. And I myself was just two months shy of my 35th birthday when Nathan was born.

Maybe we were too old, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming about a little baby girl, you know, just to make the numbers even again. It wasn’t an everyday thing, just more of a passing thought. But every few months, it popped up again.

The following Christmas, my brother and sister-in-law were the ones with the new baby. But as adorable as little Corey was, when I held him, I didn’t feel the tug.

I waited for it. Even expected it.

But it wasn’t there.

Maybe my heart was finally ready to accept that I was done having babies. Saying it aloud wasn’t as sad as it had been just a few months before.

No more babies. No more pregnancy. No more weight gain or heart burn or hemorrhoids. No more teeny, tiny must-have onesies from the baby department.

Somehow, I’d become OK with it.

But just a few weeks ago, my body started acting funny. I was having symptoms I’ve only experienced three times in my life.

I was pretty sure what the symptoms meant. I waited a week hoping things would get back to normal. When they didn’t, my imagination ran wild.

“Another whole year without an adults-only vacation,” I thought with no small amount of regret. “Just when Nathan is potty trained and getting ready to start preschool, I’ll be starting all over again. And I don’t even want to think about how long it will take me to get back into shape this time around.”

After my week of stewing, I finally took a test. The whole thing turned out to be a false alarm.

I was beyond relieved. Besides my desire for an occasional grown-ups only vacation, my apprehension about starting over, and my absolute dread over gaining more baby weight, I had not relished the idea of telling my 40-year-old husband that he, too, would be starting over.

But as it turned out, I didn’t have to.

And a teeny, tiny, CRAZY part of me is still just a little bit sad.

Once upon a time, YA-YA’s Cheri and Marsha were on a wine crawl all through the state of Michigan. They lighted candles in every little chapel and church they discovered. The entire state of Michigan was glowing by the time the trip was over…and then you were born.

Fairy tales do come true. The YA-YA candle story is my grandson’s own magical story. From the moment I learned that I would become a grandmother, I have told him the tale. There is no doubt for Cheri and me that we had the power and did not play in summoning the Fertility Goddess and any other matriarchal spirit who happened to be in the area at the time. When Petite Bebe would arrive was not clear, but we knew we had unleashed the stars to align and send his soul to be part of our family. The night that Alice and Preston told us that we were going to be grandparents I just smiled, grabbed my cell phone and called Cheri. “The candles worked,” I whispered in the phone. I heard a quiet but affirmative sigh and then her words, “We did it.” After I hung up the phone I told them the tale. Alice shook her head and smiled. She knew her mama and Cheri well.

The two movies that embody the strong sense of motherly instincts are The Divine Secrets of the YA-YA Sisterhood and Steel Magnolias. These women did not play either. Their tenacity and determination in setting the wheels in motion for their daughters was undaunting. The rituals and spells they conjured up may have been part lore, but no one has ever questioned MAMA power. Living in the Lowcountry has only validated my belief that the lines between magic and reality blur with incredible results.

Waiting was the challenge. My friend of five decades and I knew it was just a matter of when. We watched as Alice traveled through most of her thirties – determined not to settle – but watching her own biological clock tick. Being a mother was important to her, but she would not rush into a relationship merely for the sake of the outcome she longed for. At last…the stars aligned, and the candles burned brightly.

There was another YA-YA in this fairy tale. Her name was Char, Preston’s mother – who left Earth far too early. Her last wish was that her son would be blessed with a Petite Bebe. She had an infectious and playful smile. We knew she reached her hands down from Heaven to stir the stars at just the right moment. Once the spell was unleashed we could feel her presence, so Cheri and I welcomed her into our YA-YA circle.

After telling Preston Blane Bond his story while he was still in his mommy’s tummy, I can hold him at last, kiss his sweet little face and whisper …Once upon a time there were THREE YA-YA’s…

I returned from a trip to Florida to visit one of my grown children. On the plane while gazing out the window, I thought about this son who took a day off from obligations to spend it with me touring his new abode and city. I reflected on his giving up his bedroom for my comfort while he made a pallet for himself on the floor of the communal living room he shares with two roommates. I remembered how he took time to show me where the fitness room and pool were, how he painstakingly demonstrated how all the remote controls to the TV operated, and how he spent time ensuring that I knew how to unlock his door since his key was unlike anything else I’d ever seen. When he was at class, he wanted me to feel comfortable in his apartment building.

As I zoomed home on Jet Blue, I considered writing a story about this kid, this thoughtful boy who stocked his refrigerator with Tabs because that is what his mother still drinks. (I am stuck in a time warp like Austin Powers.)

Yet, I know that in creating a narrative, be it fiction or non-fiction, the scribe must arouse emotions in the reader: feelings of sadness, hilarity or excitement. The author has to provide tension with a conflict; then she must reveal how it gets resolved. In so doing, an inspirational lesson is gleaned. That’s the way it’s been with my stories, which often revolve around parenthood. When I jot down a tale, I locate a trouble spot in the upbringing of my tribe and relate what happened. Frequently, I’m writing about three of my four offspring: the three squeaky wheels.

A few weeks back, when I mentioned my upcoming sojourn to Florida, a pal said to me over lunch, “You never talk much about your third son.”

I shrugged.

“Why not?” she asked.

“He doesn’t cause me any grief,” I replied.

I sipped my syrupy sweet iced tea and thought about the Biblical story of The Prodigal Son. In it, the good son feels neglected because of the attention his father paid to his brother upon his return home after the boy had led a gallivanting, wasteful, decadent life. This returning kid, who’d been selfish, was feted and feasted while the helpful child, who remained home, working for his dad, never had been given a fiesta in his honor. He felt resentful. I wondered then if my third boy ever felt slighted.

My baby boy, now 25, had picked me up at the airport and lugged my heavy bag to his vehicle, and, despite Hurricane Irene brooding off the coast, drove me around the city he now calls home. During the downpour we ate lunch at an Italian café on Las Olas Boulevard. After the wind died down, he and I grocery shopped together while he related all the training he’s received. He entertained me with engaging stories about medical procedures he’s learned. In the evening, we dined out at a barbecue eatery. Back at his place, he sat quietly next to me while we watched my favorite TV shows. I told him he didn’t need stay by my side; he was free to study in the next room or leave to do whatever he needed to do.

“I’m okay here alone,” I said. He didn’t budge except to tilt his head toward me.

“I can catch up later, Mom.”

He dragged out the sheets from the dryer and made my bed; he laid out towels and fetched anything I might need for the night.

Most likely this story about my non-prodigal son won’t make the cut anywhere; there’s nothing overly dramatic, utterly poignant or hysterically funny in it. Yet, I had an epiphany. There is an “aha” moment to this simple narrative. Sometimes a parent gets so caught up with putting out fires, assuaging drama queens, and maneuvering around the shenanigans of “the entitled child,” that she overlooks CinderFella – the quiet one. Sometimes in a family there’s a child that makes no waves, seeks no limelight and requires no special favors. A wise parent should step away from directing mini-divas that rival “reality stars” and make time for that child who makes a parent’s life easier. Appreciate the one on automatic pilot who’s doing his own stealth mission without fanfare, who, though unnoticed, saves the day, and who makes a parent feel that she’s succeeded on the worthwhile endeavor of child rearing.

“Thank you, son,” I whispered as he hugged me good-bye at the airport. “I had a nice visit.”

“Me too,” he said. I watched as my quiet son drove off, back to his life in South Florida.

Was it my adept parenting or just “my lucky stars” to birth such a kid? Lucky, lucky stars – I’m going to put more faith in astrology!

Several times a week, I take a walk with my son through the streets of Boston on his way to work. We start out at 9:00 am. This time of year he wears his down jacket and gloves. I fuss at him for not wearing a hat. I’m in my warm, blue robe. We stop at his favorite coffee shop where he orders a large coffee – black – and a toasted bagel with extra cream cheese.

Along the way, we discuss movies, headlines and the upcoming weekend. We debate politics, argue over book reviews, and critique the state of the economy. We have fixed our government’s flaws and righted the world’s wrongs many times over. There are moments that my opinions are highly regarded. It feels good. I have waited a long time to be a friend and contemporary, instead of the parent and disciplinarian. Occasionally, when our views differ, he conveniently remembers that he is talking to his mother. It seems to explain my lapse in judgment.

Our conversation is interrupted by greetings as my son acknowledges people on the streets that he sees every day. The homeless guy on the corner always says, “Hey Buddy,” as my son passes, and sometimes, a short chat ensues. I take this time to sip my coffee and nibble the English muffin that is not on my diet. My son, then, continues our discussion, picking up where he left off. I find that amazing, since I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about.

We stop at the convenience store on his route where he buys a few scratch off lottery tickets. The register clerk greets him like a good friend. I bite my tongue to keep from commenting – anything over a dollar on the game of chance is too high stakes for me.

As we approach his workplace, we part ways. He gets on with his day. I get on with mine.

Three hours later, I am in the car with my daughter in sunny California as she maneuvers through bumper to bumper traffic on her way to her Los Angeles office. She’s attired in a summery dress and heels. I’ve changed into comfortable jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers.

Our conversation is punctuated with occasional honks and mild expletives as she lays out her day from a 9:00 am (Pacific Time) meeting to what she is going to pick up for dinner. Where my walk with my son is abstract and in the moment, her ride is full of the future; where she will be next week, next month, in five years.

She pulls into a local Starbucks where she orders a Skinny Caramel Macchiato and an egg white/spinach wrap. My mouth waters, so I pour a little extra cream and put real sugar into my coffee.

This past summer, there was talk of babies (grandchildren!). She was going to name her first born Peyton Rose – Rose after me – which made me very happy. This month, she talks about moving to New York and renting an apartment that allows pets. She and her husband could adopt a puppy from a rescue center there. They could call him Herbie (really?). The baby idea with the lovely name seems to be forgotten in their soon-to-be-abandoned beach apartment.

I am learning not to ask too many questions, and I try to keep my unsolicited advice to myself. Note the verbs: learning and trying. No matter how old your children are, parents feel the need to impart their wisdom/experience. Who would have thought that it could be a satisfying experience to simply relax and listen? I’m discovering how to be patient. It’s just a matter of time before my questions are answered.

I go to places normally impossible. My cell phone whisks me from my kitchen table in North Carolina to walk the streets of Boston through my son’s eyes, and ride that stretch of highway between Redondo Beach and LA, on speaker phone, with my daughter. It keeps my family connected with everyday minutia that occupies space around the big events in our lives. It’s the filler time…it’s the mortar between the bricks…it’s the next best thing to being there. My kids will cringe when they read this string of clichés. They will shake their heads at my writing faux pas. My children will say I am idealistic and sappy, but I know they will smile. I can’t wait for that conversation.

I love my in-laws. I almost feel guilty.

The truth is, whether you like it or not, when you marry your husband, you marry his family. Regardless of what you think of them, they are part of the package and part of him; and let’s face it, he’s known them a lot longer than he’s known you which means they are not going anywhere soon. This is cause for celebration for me. I won the in-law lottery and like a good marriage, the relationship and times we share get better every year. There is nothing more magical than being at your in-laws’ with your husband and his family, sitting around the table crying with laughter as they reminisce about that one Christmas when Mom forgot to label all the presents so nobody knew if they were about to open a doll or a truck.

Times like these are so priceless and heart-warming; it saddens me to imagine the alternative.

Dr. Laura – the radio talk show host – regularly fields callers whose question starts something like this: I really love my fiancé but…

The caller, usually female, then spews a litany of jarring examples of how his family is a bunch of mean-spirited people she plans to spend as little time with as possible. More often than not, the hostility is focused between her and her future mother-in-law, sounding more like a competition than a battle. She then asks Dr. Laura what she should do.

Dr. Laura’s opinion and answer is simple yet harsh: Don’t marry him. The caller, now speechless, then listens as Dr. Laura explains that if she marries this man, whose family she already detests, every birthday, anniversary and family get-together will be nightmarish. Not only is she setting herself up for a lifetime plagued by misery and family friction, but her husband will be stranded in the middle – a situation ripe for marital discourse no spouse wants to be in and in which there are no winners.

I always feel so bad for the caller as you know it was not the answer she was expecting. This in itself is odd because I wonder what answer she was secretly hoping for. Did she think Dr. Laura was going to side with her and suggest she tell her fiancé to choose her over his mother and family? (Sometimes I suspect this is exactly what the caller is thinking!)

But the main reason I feel sad for the caller is because of what she will miss: In-law brothers and sisters gathered around the adult’s table joking and laughing as they finally confess to Mom and Dad how they broke the bed that one year. Cousins growing up together eating hot dogs on paper plates always served up on the green fold-up tables that Grandma and Grandpa keep specially. Spouses and siblings developing friendships as they journey together through the for-better-and-for-worse times of their lives. Holiday gatherings so large that even with the extra leaf, there is more food than table. And finally, quiet evenings sitting around the table playing cards with his parents, just like they did with theirs.

Although I feel blessed to enjoy all of this now; 23 years ago it all had the potential to take a much uglier path.

The first time I announced to my own parents that we would not be with them, but instead were spending Christmas in Michigan with his parents, I told my Mum in July; I figured she would need six months to calm down. Within moments, she declared that if I was going to Michigan then everybody was, and she wasn’t joking. What made this even more unbelievable is that my family does not even live in the USA; they live in England. Two families, one house, ten days – I feared it might pre-empt another war between our countries. The British are coming, the British are coming!

That Christmas, 22 people sat down for dinner; grandparents, parents, and siblings from both sides of the Atlantic spanning four generations and two different cultures, all putting aside their differences to share the spirit of the season in harmony and togetherness. The effort, consideration and respect his family showed to mine brought tears to my eyes, and the Christmas proved to be one of the most magical in our 23 years of marriage. How could I not love them? As overjoyed as I was about the success of our international Christmas, I must confess that having five thousand miles and an ocean between each other’s families comes with benefits.

First, British people do not celebrate Thanksgiving; phewee, that’s one holiday solved. Second, the Atlantic Ocean means my husband and I will never have to juggle either of the following: Eat two Christmas meals on the same day, or pack everything up on Christmas Day morning for the long drive to the other parent’s house – a blessing not just for our waistline, but our stress level and our marriage.

Over the years, I have been elated whenever I discover other people sharing similar feelings and stories about their in-laws. Sadly, this is not necessarily the norm which makes me wonder if they keep it to themselves because they also feel guilty. Besides, when you gush happy-in-law stories in public, you never know who might be listening; it might be the girl who just called Dr. Laura – talk about adding salt to the wound. Maybe it is better to keep quiet just in case.

But then again, there are too many sad thoughts in the world not to share those that are happy. My in-laws are a beautiful family, and I love them all.

There, I’ve said it.

When I was just a boy my mother baked a special cake from a recipe that a neighbor passed on to her. The Hungarian Nut Cake, though simply named, was quite complicated to make. Instead of being flour-based like most cakes, the main ingredient was nuts. Bags of walnuts had to be shelled and then ground to a powder. Eighteen egg whites needed to be whipped into a white froth and gently folded into the mixture. Remaining golden yolks would be blended together with a pound of soft butter and cubes of sweet chocolate creating a velvety mocha brown icing that melted on your tongue. This light, spongy cake topped with chocolate butter cream was like nothing I had ever tasted and quickly became my favorite. And because it was my favorite, my mother chose to make it on my birthday each year.

As she carefully spread the rich icing over the cooled cake, she would smile at me. Then my mother would close her eyes as if conjuring up the past, and she would tell me the story of my first days in the world.

It was a chilly day in November, just like today, she would begin. Your father rushed me to the hospital and almost got a ticket on the way. I was in labor for more than fourteen hours…fourteen hours before you were finally born. You were ten pounds, twelve ounces, and you had a full head of black hair. They said you were the biggest baby on the floor. The nurses called you “little blimpo” because you were so chubby. I remember it was the day before Thanksgiving. Your father brought me a turkey leg for dinner.

Your first month was like a bad dream. I just couldn’t get you to stop crying. By the end of December, I was sure something just wasn’t right. I would hold you and rock you and sing to you, and all you would do is cry. And I cried right along with you, and I begged for an answer.

Why won’t you stop crying, Jeffery? What am I doing wrong? I’d ask over and over.

Your only answer was to spit up everything I tried to feed you. We called the doctor, who was just getting ready to leave for his in-laws’ house, where he and his family planned to spend Christmas Eve. He asked me to give you a bottle of Chamomile tea to see if you could hold that down. It came right up. The doctor felt sure it was an obstruction of the bowel, and it had to be operated on immediately. He told us to get you to the hospital. He would meet us there.

You’ll never know how scared I was. I lost your sister at birth six years earlier, and I was so afraid that I would lose you too. I held you in my arms and told your father we weren’t taking you anywhere. I couldn’t bear to lose another baby. Your father got down on one knee and said, “Betty, it’s the only chance he’s got. We have to give him that chance.” There was no more discussion. We wrapped you in blankets and headed out into the cold. They operated that night. My doctor, God bless him, saved your life.

Then she’d open her eyes again. They were always filled with tears. She would hug me, kiss my forehead, and she’d go back to icing the cake. This was a sweet birthday tradition that my mother and I shared for almost thirty years until her death. I felt like an orphan that first birthday without my mother there icing my favorite cake and retelling my favorite story. When a friend asked why I had such a long face on my birthday, I explained my sadness.

“Do you have the recipe?” she asked.

I dug out a grease-stained notepad that held the secret ingredients of all of my mother’s creations. There it was, scrawled in her handwriting: Hungarian Nut Cake and in parentheses, for Jeffery. My friend faithfully followed the recipe, and she continues to bake that cake every year for my birthday. As for the story of my birth, no one could ever tell it the way my mother did. But if I had too, I could do it with my eyes closed.

It was a phone call I will never forget.

Dad calls my name from three rooms away; to me it sounds like a bellow. The dear man is hard of hearing – none of his three hearing aids work, he says – and doesn’t know the volume of his own voice.

It’s a wonderful voice, one that soothed me, comforted me, reprimanded me, advised me and now asks me for help.

At 89 he can’t hear his own voice; my ears know a pin dropped into feathers.

I walk into the kitchen and see him struggling with the can opener, frustrated. He looks up at me helplessly as I gently remove it from his hands and open the tuna fish.

I leave as he says, “Thank you,” allowing him his dignity.

Incidents like these – a lid closed too tightly, an item on a shelf that’s out of reach except by stepstool, bags too heavy to carry – happen often to my octogenarian parents. Now in their beyond-golden years, they’re blessed to have each other.

What to do? Become a filling in the sandwich generation.

Merriam-Webster describes the sandwich generation as “a generation of people who are caring for their aging parents while supporting their own children.”

The Web calls this group of baby-boomers “those who care not only for their own children but also act in a caregiver role for their own parent(s).”

Truth be told, I’m not exactly a filling because being “sandwiched” means being in the middle of whatever. The term “sandwich generation” refers to someone caring for both their parents and their children.

There had to be a logical explanation. Google to the rescue!

Link upon link appeared, and after much investigation I learned I’m an open-faced sandwich. And by this time I’m really curious because anything related to food peaks my interest.

Syndicated columnist Carol Abaya, M.A., says people fall into one of three categories. Traditional sandwiches describe those who raise their own families and also care for their parents.

Club sandwiches are people in their 50s and 60s with aging parents, adult children and grandchildren or folks in their 30s and 40s with kids, aging parents and grandparents. Abaya calls us open-faced sandwich folks “anyone else involved in elder care.”

Some days I feel more like a sardine wedged between my life then and now.

A few years after college – now a distant memory revived by anticipated reunions – I moved out and then moved back only to move out again until job loss and life happened.

Part of life happening was Dad’s stroke in November 2004, which precipitated my decision to work from home. Mom and I alternated responsibilities like driving Dad to and from his physical therapy and medical appointments.

Contrary to what friends told me, living at home is not like living with roommates.

“It’s like being back in college,” said Beryn. Not really. These are my parents, and, frankly, it’s very different.

Who knew from sandwich anything years ago? My parents’ respective families lived within blocks of each other – a subway ride at the most – and saw to the needs of siblings, aunts, uncles and other family members.

Dad took care of his widowed mother when he came home from the war. When he and my uncle married he assumed much of the responsibility for their mother.

Mom supported her parents through their respective illnesses and moved Nana close to us after Papa died.

The only sandwich people they knew worked at the corner deli.

When Dad retired from a successful career in 2002, he got a part-time job, played golf, enjoyed free time with Mom and drove himself in his own car.

A few days past his 82nd birthday, and shortly after Thanksgiving, he woke up and told Mom he was having difficulty swallowing. I called our local pharmacist and asked if his medications were interacting badly.

She said get to the ER right away. “I think he’s having a stroke.”

I believe she saved his life.

Little by little he got stronger. We saw to his appointments, and made sure he took his medications correctly and in time. I put “me” on hold and focused my attention on getting Dad well.

By what definition?

A trip to the eye doctor was telling. One wall of the waiting room had large plastic canisters of assorted sweets. He likes hard candies, so I brought him two and sat down to read a magazine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Dad attempt to open one candy. He gave it his all while I sat there wanting to help without embarrassing him.

Children want to do things by themselves. My niece, 8, and my nephew, 12, are fiercely independent and ask for help only if strength is required or if something is out of their reach.

“Would you please open this?” Dad asked, his eyes admitting frustration at his physical limitations.

At that moment I felt sorry for him, the once-strapping man who served in the United States Army and who, fatherless at age 20, was emotionally strong for his young widowed mother.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes now showing gratitude.

And although my parents celebrated their 56th wedding anniversary, I worry about them like they used to – and probably still do – worry about me. I’ve made plans to move, yet each time the gods smile and change them. As one friend says, you can get there from here only if you’re happy with your “here.”

So for now I remain an open-faced sandwich.

I woke up and looked out the window. It was cloudy; but so far, nothing was falling. Conversation from my bridal shower replayed in my head. “It’s bad luck if it rains on your wedding day,” a friend said. “Nonsense,” another guest argued. “A rainy wedding day is good luck.”

Good luck or bad, I wasn’t going to obsess about the weather. In fact, I promised myself months earlier that aside from my cake crashing to the floor, I would not allow anything to tarnish my special day.

I threw on some old clothes, laced up my running shoes, and went for a jog around my neighborhood. When I returned, I ate French toast for breakfast while my dad had his cereal. We chatted about the day’s upcoming events and about how my fiancé might be spending his day with his groomsmen. Then, it was time to get moving.

My mom checked on the decorations at the ceremony and reception sites while I went to my hair appointment. By the time my hair and make-up were done, I needed to go to the church to get dressed. My bridesmaids and I dressed together and made sure everything was in order before the big moment.

When it was time, my dad took my arm and led me down the aisle. I gazed at the crowd of wonderful people who came to support us, and then I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry in front of all of them. We rounded the corner, and I locked eyes with my fiancé. He looked genuinely thrilled to see me, and I felt I couldn’t get to him fast enough.

Our ceremony was traditional and special. We lit candles for those who couldn’t be with us, and we lit another as a symbol of our new union. Finally, we were pronounced husband and wife.

I remember a warm and wonderful feeling when we walked down the aisle together as life partners. Everyone in the congregation applauded and seemed truly happy for us.

Following the ceremony, we took a few pictures of our families and tried our best to recap some of the special moments from the service. We had no problem smiling, posing with our rings or recreating our kiss.

We gathered our belongings to head to the reception site. “Don’t forget your umbrella,” my dad said. “I’ll pull the car to the back door so your dress won’t get wet.”

I was surprised to see all the puddles when I walked outside. Everything around us was drenched, and I hadn’t even noticed it had been raining.

It rained throughout my entire wedding. It drizzled as I walked down the aisle, it rained steadily as we said our vows, and it poured while we drove to our reception. I hiked up my dress and jumped over puddles when I got out of our car. Then, it rained harder. It poured during dinner, while we danced and as we ate our cake.

Seven years have passed since my special day. Every now and then, people ask me what I think it means when it rains on your wedding day. I tell them, “It means you might get wet.” And that really is all that it means. In terms of weather, there is no good luck or bad luck. And if you are enjoying your wedding as much as I was, you probably won’t even notice.