Complaining is easy

Its easy to write a blog and winge about life. Over the past days, I've been thinking and stewing how I can put my own life experience with children and parents to better the lives of others. This is inspired by three events: The arrival of a new presidental administration of hope; Seeing materialism and greed cause a Great Depression; Watching my parents lose all recognition of any physical acheivements in their lives. I'm feeling a calling to change the world for the better before I croak. And I don't mean to become Saint Janini. But what else is life about? A friend sent me around a copy of the "bucket list" things to do/see before you die. So I'm making my own bucket list of one item: Leave the world a better place for others.
Sounds a bit like a combination Mid-life crisis/Religious calling. I'm looking for information on other people who have found alternative ways to care for their family and extend this care to their community.

Would You Call Childrens' Services?

The Child's Story
My mom and dad had to go out of town for a week and they couldn't take me with them. So they sent me to Playhouse. They just left me there! I was very confused and frightened. I didn't like the food and there was something wrong with the people that were staying there. The teachers tried to make me take off my clothes and they acted so phoney! I knew they were up to no good. I wouldn't eat their strange food, and I got really mad so I threw my dinner on the floor. Then I went to my room and locked myself in my room. but the door wouldn't lock, so I had to push and shove and move my dresser in front of the door. I stood there watching the door, I couldn't sleep because I had to stay on my guard. Finally my mom came and took me back home. I was so glad, but I was exhausted and slept all the next day.

The Parent's Story
My daughter had to go out of town for a week and she couldn't take me with her. So she sent me to Respite Care. She just left me there! I was very confused and frightened. I didn't like the food and there was something wrong with the people that were staying there. The Caregivers tried to make me take off my clothes and they acted so phoney! I knew they were up to no good. I wouldn't eat their strange food, and I got really mad so I threw my dinner on the floor. Then I went to my room and locked myself in my room. but the door wouldn't lock, so I had to push and shove and move my dresser in front of the door. I stood there watching the door, I couldn't sleep because I had to stay on my guard. Finally my daughter came and took me back home. I was so glad, but I was exhausted and slept all the next day.

Flossing for the whole family

I never thought I'd floss another person's teeth. Now I floss four sets of teeth, only one of which is mine. Flossing the boys' teeth is rather sweet. They've got these tiny little teeth, all white and new. Their mouths are soft and pink and fresh.
Flossing Fanini's teeth on the other hand is a tad unnerving. For one thing, Fanini's teeth have seen a lifetime of chewing. They are somewhat crooked, full of fillings and caps, and a color I can only describe as ochre. When I run the floss between the teeth, large chunks of the day's meal flick out from between the teeth, often landing on my face or clothes.
Right now you probably are making a kinda "gggarrg" sound, and I understand. I always try to focus on a quote from a book I read a long time ago. It said essentially that love negates disgust. At the time I read the book, I was thinking of it in more of the "sicko erotic requests" category. But now I understand it in more of a "wiping up the bodily excretions of your loved ones without gagging" kinda thing.
So I floss. And I wipe bottoms. And I fall asleep with puke in my hair. Does this make me a good person? Probably not, but I'm learning to be a more tolerant person. Certainly I can talk disgusting with the best of 'em at the Mom's Group.

What's the Panini Generation?

I generally refer to my parents by their given names, Manini and Fanini, rather than calling them Mom and Dad. Both my parents suffer from Alzheimer's dementia. On their backward journey down through their brains, the distinguishing landmarks that made them into Mom and Dad have mostly disappeared. Using this name distinction helps me to separate the Mom and Dad of my memory with the Fanini and Manini of the present. As you can imagine, I wonder about my own brain a good deal these days. I am suddenly aware of the beginning and ending of life, as I experience it through my own family.

When I was doing my Tour of (assisted living) Homes, again and again I kept bumping up against the label "Sandwich Generation". This term was chirped up by perky Community Connection Directors, those folks whose job it is to shepard dazed and anxious family members into the squeeze chute of old people management. The "Sandwich Generation" are those 40 somethings with young children on one hand, and aging parents on the other. They are the filling pressed between the bread slices of kids and parents. But what if your bread slices are more substantial than Wonder White? What if your bread slices are artisan ciabatta loaves cut in two and jammed between the red-hot grills of an Italian panini press? What if you have two rambunctious growing boys and two petulant declining parents? Do you think you might be a member of the Panini Generation, now or in the future? Then please join me and build upon the funny, practical, surreal and sad experiences that happen to this member of the "Panini Generation".