"Hold still, just hold still. It's not going to hurt," I shouted, my voice rising. "It's only going to take a couple minutes."
But Micah wasn't having it. He was wailing, thrashing, and bobbing his head like a prize fighter. He was doing everything in his power to ensure not one centimeter fell from his cherished mushroom bowl.
It wasn't supposed to be this frustrating. We’d turned on his favorite show. We had snacks ready as incentive. We even sprung for the "baby clippers" with the quiet motor. But it didn't take more than three clips before he escalated into level 4 meltdown.
After five eternal minutes of wrestling, restraining, and melting away my nerves, I gave up. I turned to my wife. "That’s it, I’m done. You can shower him tonight. I need a break."
I chucked the clippers back into the box and walked out. In that moment, there was no sense or solace. I simply thought, “Am I raising a wimp? Why couldn't he just man up for once?"
Once the door closed, the guilt set in.
Why was I even this angry? He’s two. Did I like haircuts at two? Probably not. The buzzing is scary and the tiny hairs itch all over your body. Besides, after the “Great Haircut Incident of 2024,” can anyone really blame him?
If the “Best Dad Award” committee had been watching that night, I wouldn’t have made the short list, let alone received a single vote.
*****
A few months ago, I went to my parents’ house to check on their TV. "It’s dead," my dad diagnosed. "We're ordering a new one."
"Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?" I asked.
"Yes, it still didn't work. I just told your mother to order a new one."
Their 70-inch Samsung had died out, just like that? That didn't seem right; they’d only bought it a few years ago. "Let me just swing by and take a look," I said.
When I arrived, the remote was unresponsive. Nothing worked. After a few minutes of sleuthing, I checked the back of the set, pulled the cables, and firmly re-plugged them. Voila—YouTube shot back up on the screen.
"It works? I can't believe it," Dad said.
"I thought you said you already tried the plugs?"
"I did." He pointed to a tangled mess of cords on the floor to the left of the TV.
"Dad... those are for the internet. Not the TV."
"Oh, really? Well, I thought they were all connected."
I didn't know what to say. Part of me was frustrated—this was something a ten-year-old could figure out. Another part of me felt a cold realization: Is this another sign that Dad is starting to lose it?
He would later admit, "My memory isn't what it used to be. Your mother tells me things and I just... forget." Whether it was a minor epiphany or quiet resignation, I’m not sure. I just nod, resisting myself from tracing this thought all the way to its unsavory end.
*****
I was sharing these frustrations with a friend at church—the exhaustion of raising young children and dealing with the cognitive decline of an aging parent—when a friend replied with a single word.
"Sandwich," he said. "You’re in the sandwich phase."
He explained that it’s the season where you are caught between two worlds, two callings. You’re trying to be a present and attentive father to your children while attending to the needs of increasingly dependent parents.
It’s a unique pressure because you’re pinched from both sides. You’re needed by people on polar opposite ends of the life continuum, and you're never quite sure how to fulfill both roles without losing your sanity in the middle.
There’s a quiet sadness in the fact that the bookends of life are marked by the same desperation. We enter the world hungry, thirsty, and cold, needy for care. And as the passage of days prepares the ground for us, we often return to that similar state—only frailer in body, weaker in mind.
And here’s the secret: I’m not sure how this will all play this out. I’m barely staying afloat as a father of two (with a third on the way). Now, I’m also gonna have to serve as a glorified secretary and assistant for my father…?
My filial love and cultural expectations mean I wouldn’t opt for a senior home. Yet I wonder how I’ll manage if they ever need to live under my roof.
Life might prepare you for the milestones of marriage and parenthood. At least you might’ve read about it or seen it in movies. But nobody (as far as I can recall) mentions the part where you become the caretaker for the people who once took care of you.
*****
Gabriel García Márquez once said: "Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it."
It’s that part that gets me—what one remembers and how one remembers it. It’s one thing if I had to help my father walk around or assist him with basic chores. I think I can mentally prepare myself for that. But what if he starts forgetting the memories? The stories? The faces? If he becomes a "shell of oneself"...a familiar container of a person you no longer recognize?
All these thoughts were swirling around in my head that morning as Dad and I drove to the Huntington Gardens. I had promised a few months earlier that I would take him when the weather hit right. It was the perfect morning.
As we strolled the well-manicured grounds, my dad beamed with delight. He recounted the names of various trees and plants without pause. He could distinguish a Japanese maple from a common red at a glance. "That’s an aged black pine," he noted. "You couldn't get that for less than five figures."
When we arrive at the famed Japanese gardens, he is, for a moment, in bonsai heaven. He stops to admire the branches pulled by wires and pinched into the perfect equilibrium. In this place I feel both a sense of peace and relief. He’s still him, and I am still here, next to him.
"Dad, let’s take a picture here," I said, pointing to a spot where the bright sky and pavilions reflected perfectly in the pond.
My father is, generally speaking, an easy-going man. But in that photo, I come to find a deeper contentment that I hadn’t noticed before. There’s an ease that seems to have settled over him, like bottled joy washed ashore after years of wandering turbulent waters. I could sense his profound gratitude for the life he’s lived, highs and lows and everything in between.
Seeing him smile made me feel like a good son, like he was actually proud of me. I took in the peace of the moment. Life is an endless cycle of demands, but in that garden, I felt untethered. I felt a gentle nudge to simply exist in the present.
We headed off to a local Asian buffet for lunch. Of all the items, Dad was most impressed by the espresso machine. “This is the best coffee I’ve had in a long time.” We sat quietly, in between sips, admiring the aroma that filled our space.
Before long I glanced at my watch, noting the few hours left before I had to pick up the kids. I’ve become all too familiar with the ruthlessness of my anxiety. But no, not this time. I’m not rushing back to my inbox. I’m not setting my mind on the meetings.
I will enjoy this, I thought. Because I know there will be a time when I won’t be able to. Stay present, enjoy the moment, go and give thanks.
What is the point of worry, anyway? Each day has enough trouble of its own, and tomorrow will worry about itself.
*****
The sandwich phase isn't easy. Some days I feel spread too thin and stacked too high.
But the good Lord above promises enough bread for the daily—and I imagine he’ll help me clean up the crumbs, too.