Written by Mel Robinson

“It turns out being the meat in the sandwich generation isn’t nourishing — it’s exhausting, ridiculous, and occasionally hilarious.” 

Some people talk about being “pulled in two directions.” Cute. Try three.

My son’s final year of high school was already a circus act — him trying to look cool, keep up socially, and still scrape decent grades while pretending his parents didn’t exist. Add to that my live-in parents, who pride themselves on being “independent” but somehow keep getting scam texts from a Nigerian prince. Then add my own full-time job as a business consultant with Very Important Clients who seem to think I exist solely to solve their 3am emergencies.

Three directions? Try being stretched so thin you feel like Glad Wrap on leftovers.

The “drama performance vs. parent crisis” tug-of-war has happened more than once. My favourite? The Apple Watch “fall detect” debacle. The kids, my husband and I all got frantic alerts at the same time. Dinner abandoned, shoes flying on, we went into full emergency mode, racing to my parents’ house like they were dangling off a cliff. And there they were, calmly eating dinner, wondering why we were out of breath. Turns out, one of them had dropped the Apple Watch while taking it off. Nothing says “family bonding” quite like heart palpitations over spaghetti bolognese.

And don’t get me started on medical drama déjà vu. My parents: “Why do I need to do this test? Doctors just make things up.” My kids: “This rash isn’t getting better, but doctors are a waste of time.” Cue me, playing chauffeur, appointment-maker, and emotional shock absorber — only to be told by both generations that the professionals I dragged them to are all idiots. Then, after a day of refereeing, I’m still up till midnight making up the work hours I lost.

Technology meltdowns? Also my domain. My mum swore all her emails had been “hacked” — spoiler: she’d just minimised her inbox. A child called me sobbing that the uni assignment had “deleted itself” with 25 minutes to submit. (Translation: he forgot where he saved it.) I somehow saved both their days. And the whole time I thought, who rescues me?

And yes, I’ve been the unpaid Uber driver too many times to count. Picture this: finally sinking into the couch after a brutal day, remote in hand, ready for my guilty-pleasure series… when the cry comes: “Mum, all the Ubers are cancelling, and I have to get to [insert dramatic social event here]!” Cue me dragging myself up, waving goodbye to my quiet night like it’s the Titanic.

The guilt part is harder to laugh off. It crept up slowly — the realisation that while the kids are (thankfully) becoming independent, my parents are becoming dependent. The things I

used to do for toddlers — buying groceries, ferrying them around, making decisions “for their own good” — I now do for adults who raised me. It’s a bizarre reversal, and some days it leaves me aching.

Do I resent it? Sometimes. Do I feel guilty for resenting it? Every time.

The turning point for me was boundaries. My “no” used to be a soft “maybe.” Now when I say no, it’s firm, unapologetic, and non-refundable. That boundary has kept me from disappearing into everyone else’s needs. And something unexpected happened — my kids started stepping up. My daughter bakes, picks up groceries, even shops for my dad. My son chats with him about cars and the stock exchange, keeping his brain sharp and his dignity intact.

That’s when I realised: I’m not supposed to hold everyone up on my own. And I don’t need to.

Here’s my truth bomb for any mum entering this stage: It feels endless. Like Groundhog Day, but with more phone calls and heavier mental load. But things do shift. Someone else eventually takes Dad to the appointment. The kids start to cook a meal. You actually get five minutes to yourself.

Being the “sandwich filling” isn’t glamorous. Some days it’s soggy, squashed, and falling apart. But even sandwiches can be shared — and that’s when it gets a little easier to swallow.