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I hung up the phone with my mom and glanced down at my notes. They resembled my middle schooler's doodles for all the unorganized scrawling.
In one quick conversation, my holiday to-do's have more than doubled — along with the knot in my stomach. Staring at the paper, I wondered how so much could've changed in the two years following my father's death.
Now, I'm responsible for all the seasonal magic my parents once created, plus my own family's stuff. And I'm not sure I can manage it.
Since my dad's unexpected passing, my life has been different. I feel the change daily in the little things, like picking up my phone to call him about a recipe or get the lowdown on what the red light on my dashboard really means — only to remember I can't.
Then there are the bigger shifts that push my grief deeper and lead me to feel instantly overwhelmed — like moving into the "sandwiched adult" category. The Pew Research Center says that 54% of Americans in their 40s are "sandwiched" between an aging parent and a young child — and this is me.
When my husband, son, and I moved back to my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky, from Los Angeles six years ago, a big reason was so I could have reliable parenting support. Now, I'm the support for my parent. I've stepped into my dad's role of paying the bills, taking care of the finances, chauffeuring my mom to doctor visits or shopping trips, and even organizing pet food deliveries. Add my own family's schedules, menus, and household tasks, and my invisible mental load feels very visible on my tired face.
My mom was there for me growing up, so I'm happy to be there for her as she grows older. But being responsible for my mom and 11-year-old (even with my husband's help) is enough to ramp up my stress.
During the holiday season, the pressure flies higher than Santa's sleigh. I carry the weight of every holiday-related decision and must accomplish it all so the holidays can ring merry and bright for my family. No biggie.
I get a text seconds after hanging up with my mom, so it's obviously her. "Don't forget the dog food. Don't worry about the Christmas tree. XO" I let the last statement sink in. I'm aware she's trying to lighten my load, but no tree? This was a dad holiday favorite.
My father painstakingly picked out trees like shoppers are obsessed with picking out a perfectly ripe avocado. Each year, he'd choose the tallest one — the scrapes on our ceiling were a reminder and a mark of pride. Once the tree was maneuvered inside, my dad strung his trademark blue lights, and the holidays had officially started.
Grabbing one of my kid's markers, I add "dog food" to my list and consider crossing off "Mom and Dad's tree." But I don't. The thought of losing this connection with my father while simultaneously stepping into his size 9 Dockers brings me to tears. I contemplate going to the bedroom to cry alone but am quickly intercepted with a shout, "Mom, what's for dinner?"
I'll cry later.
It wouldn't be the first time I've pushed my feelings aside so I continue mommying. I force the Rolodex in my head to scroll through food options for my son while contemplating family holiday menus, grocery shopping, holiday gifts, and, of course, trees. The knot in my stomach reminds me that I miss my dad.
If parenting has taught me anything, it's that some days (most days) I need a moment of me-time to regroup. My sobbing doesn't lighten my to-do list, but it does lighten me.
Allowing myself more moments to release the stress and grief during my holiday season can (hopefully) provide me with a grounded space while caring for my family. Taking time to process also makes me aware of one very important fact: I'm keeping number 12 on my list, "Mom and Dad's (extra-tall) tree, " forever.
