Feel the Pinch

The middle-age pinch is really getting to me, and I’m not talking about my waistband. Here’s the playbill:

1) 17-year-old son.
2) 15-year-old daughter.
3) 80-year-old father.
4) 40-something year old lovely darling spouse.
5) 60-year-old chronically ill unmarried half brother.

Where shall I begin to tell the story of the family related stress I presently endure?
Someone asked me what I was like as a teenager and if I’m experiencing payback. Don’t ask my older brother, because he will just let loose with some sinister smart aleck guttural laugh which indicates an utter inability to put his feelings into words. Of course, that just may be him. My son is one of the smartest kids you’ll ever meet. He’s a deep thinker who wears his feelings not only on his sleeve but from head to toe. He’s one step ahead of us at all times, and naturally his mother and I don’t know what we’re talking about. If I can just convince him to maintain his truly amazing grade point average and get into a nice college, we’ll be okay. Believe everything you have ever heard about teenagers.

This brings us to our daughter. As Daddy D has shared with the vast blogosphere several times, she and her friends really are the light of my life. I feel things turning, though. Example: Last night, her mother and I picked her up from the health club. Her mom asked, “Did you swim?” One might expect a yes or no answer, maybe a detail about how many laps she swam. But, no, we got “Is my hair wet?” Implied in there, of course, is “you idiots.” Believe everything you have ever heard about teenagers.

My father is just plain old. There’s no getting around it. He lives alone. He still drives. He’s self sufficient, and I’m happy about that. However, he has shown a tendency recently to fall down. Old person + falling down = broken hip. This leads to rehab, nursing home, and God knows what else. Nobody wants that! So, I suggest maybe a walker or a scooter. Nope. It seems the walker would be worse, because he says if he falls on the walker he could break a rib or something. Then, he added this little zinger: “I’m not helpless yet.” Thank you.

My wife is magnificent, a saint. Ask anyone who knows her. However, there’s this little thing called menopause. I lived through it with my mother and I vowed never to live through it again. So much for vows. When you add recalcitrant, know-it-all teenagers in with a pre-menopausal woman, you have an emotional inferno.

I’m stress eating. I’m gaining wait. I’m feeling the pinch. Help me.

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