By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

They’ve made the movie of my life and cast Marisa Tomei to play me.

It’s “old school vs. new school”, reads the ad for the new movie “Parental Guidance”. It stars Billy Crystal and Bette Midler as grandparents, Artie and Dina Decker, with Tomei as their daughter Alice. But it sounds like the story of my life.

After my son, Luke, was born almost 18 years ago, my mother moved closer to me to help take care of him, and then eventually my daughter, Meg, as well.

Our initial time together was one of cooperation and bonding. As Luke and Meg got older though, and we began interacting with other mothers and children in classes and on sports teams, getting into the groove of “how things are done,” my mother and I began to have conversations similar to those of the characters in this new movie.

“Who won?” my mother would ask in confusion after we watched Luke play peewee baseball. Her reaction rivaled Artie’s after I explained the “no scorekeeping/ everyone gets a trophy for showing up” dynamic that I had accepted as the kinder, gentler way to play sports.

Unlike Alice and her parents, my mother and I never had the “You bought a Super Soaker? We don’t play with guns,” discussion; we did however butt heads when she bought the wrong brand of Pokémon cards. We also battled over the never-ending stream of Beanie Babies that came out of her purse similarly to that magic trick where endless handkerchiefs are pulled from the illusionist’s pocket.

My mother, like Artie, was also no stranger to money-as-bribe in order to get them to do her bidding. I found this out when Luke announced I needed to take him to Toys R Us to buy the latest Transformer robot. When I told him that he had quite a lot to play with and might have to wait until Christmas or his birthday, he responded, “No, I’m getting it now with my own money.” As I knew my five-year-old had not gotten a job, a light interrogation revealed grandma had been greasing his palm.

Another relatable line from the movie’s poster says, “Here come the grandparents. There go the rules.” Indeed.

When I watched the scene where Artie gives cake and ice cream to Alice’s three non-sugar-eating kids, I was reminded of the time I gave my mother a list of foods to which I had already introduced 18-month-old Luke, and said he wasn’t allowed to eat anything other those items. Imagine my surprise when I came home to find Luke savoring a not-on-the-list peach, the juice dripping down his face. He was wiping his chin with his fingers, and then licking them to get every drop of this new delicacy. “I knew he’d like it and he did. Nothing bad happened,” my mother shrugged. “So now you can put it on the list,” she mocked.

This from a woman who was so neurotic about my health when I was a child, that she’d call the pediatrician if I got a hangnail.

Because I’m Mommy in the Middle, I’m now on borrowed time as the “new school” member. In the next couple of decades, I will become the old guard. By the time Luke and Meg are parents, I will have had my fill of being the “helicopter/this is how everyone does it these days” mom.

I will be ready to live out what Diane professes as gospel: “Grandchildren are a second chance.” I plan to go to town with mine.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

My mother is suffering a bit of depression and my daughter has some anxiety, but it is MY mental health I fear will end up worse for wear.

Turing 90 -- on the heels of worrying about my 88-year-old aunt who is recovering from open-heart surgery -- has taken a toll on my mom. She goes in and out of a funk, saying things like, “It’s hard to get old.”

It makes me sad that I can’t fix what’s broken, as I have no time machine that will bring back her younger, stronger self. The best I can do is spend time with her. I take her to museum exhibits that I think will interest her, shopping (her one-time favorite pastime, although now she rarely buys anything) and nice places for a light lunch to be around people.

Read Care.com's article on Seniors and Social Life »

Sometimes we just stay in and watch an afternoon movie. As she invariably nods off, and as I watch her sleep, I try to remember her as she was most of my life: on the go, always busy and productive. If anyone deserves a nap it’s her, but I’m often afraid that something worse is around the corner, like immobility or total memory loss.

Just when I reach my personal low point, my 15-year-old daughter Meg comes home from school in a hyper mood that sends my own anxieties soaring. She is switching to a new school -- mid-year. Although we all believe the move is the right one, she has to stay in her current school until the semester ends to get credit for the first half of ninth grade. Having her finish the semester at the new school would have been too expensive and, we were advised, too disruptive. I know from my own professional experience that when I would get a new job, but still owed the current job anywhere from a few days to two weeks notice, how hard it is to be physically in one place and have my mind in another.

I guess to give her anxieties an outlet, she starts obsessing over things. Will she be able to do the math at her new school? Will she make friends? How will her parents be able to pay for it? I have put a reward system into play, so that each week until the semester ends she will be rewarded with things like a new pair of pants or a shirt from H&M if she can just “keep calm and carry on.” (Sorry, but bribery works.)

All these “one minute I’m up, the next I’m down” feelings are taking their toll on me. Any moment I expect my head to start spinning around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.

Someone close to me said that I need to take care of myself the way I try to take care of others. Because if I don’t I’ll be no use to anyone. And that’s some great advice I’m trying to keep in the back of my mind every day.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

“If that coat is worth all that money, I’ll eat my hat,” said my mother of what I thought would be her birthday gift. She would not even try it on. I confess, the designer wear was an indulgence, but I thought if anyone deserves something extravagant it is the woman who has spent almost the past century lavishing others with presents as well as kindness.

On the day she turned 90, I thought we’d do a little shopping and have lunch. As we left the store empty-handed, I hoped our midday meal would fare better. It did.

There was a brief moment though, over our sandwiches and coffee, when my mother reiterated her point that she didn’t need a coat and if she did she’d buy it at Bolton’s or Loehmann’s. Her rationale: “I had my time. My time has past.”

She was always a sharp dresser, going to work in the latest trends. We could never afford top designer fashions, but she somehow managed to make “the look for less.”

Since I mostly saw her in a housecoat, I remember being pleasantly surprised at how nice she looked when she’d get spiffed up for a wedding or a holiday party. It’s a downer to watch someone coming to grips with the fact that her “time” is behind, instead of ahead.

You would think then that observing my 15-year-old daughter Meg, whose best days are before her, would lift me; instead it just adds to my stress. Where my mother thinks money should not be wasted, Meg believes it’s no object, especially in regard to filling her closet. She, along with my son and husband, also mistake my wallet for an ATM: “Do you have a twenty?” “Can I take some dough?” “I need cash.”

Meg is at the age where you play it safe by wanting everything because you really don’t know what you want. Conspicuous consumption seems like all the bases will be covered.

Rather than let these two opposite situations drive me crazy, I’ve decided to draw from both in a way that will allow me to save my sanity.

Unlike Meg, I don’t want “everything.” I have learned to be discriminating. And because I believe less is more, I can honestly say that for the most part I have what I want and am grateful. It’s one thing though to say you appreciate what you have and quite another to put it into practice. To help me with that, I’m going to try to remember that my “time” is not behind me, it’s now. I’m going to use, wear, take care of and in general make the most of what I do have while I can.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

“…do not despise thy mother when she is old.”  Proverbs 23:22

I usually don’t go around quoting the Bible (I’m not that well-versed in the good book, nor am I that holy), but this piece of wisdom and insight crossed my path and affected me.

My mother is going to be 90 in a couple of weeks. Although the word “despise” is a little too strong and one that I would never consider, I could substitute it for “become impatient with.”

How easy it is to sigh with exasperation at having to repeat oneself more than once, or hear yet again the story of what one neighbor said to another in the elevator. It’s so simple to roll one’s eyes and shake one’s head at how the simplest of things can go from firecracker to time bomb status, such as a bank letter that says nothing more than if you open a new account they’ll waive the checking fee.

My mother’s bad eyesight, plus her own impatience with wanting to read these kinds of correspondence, results in her sort of skimming half the document and surmising that the bank is somehow altering her account. She is so overwhelmed by just the thought of having to go there and sign papers or perhaps change her banking routine that her tizzy mode kicks into high gear. The letter is then waved in my face and a rant builds about what they’re doing with her money and why does she have to deal with this and why can’t they leave her account alone?

By the time I look the letter over and assure her that nothing is going on with her account and that the financial institution is merely soliciting new customers, she has worked up such a head of steam that nothing can appease her, not even hearing that there’s no problem and she needs only to throw the paper away. The rant continues, except now about why they are sending her a letter like that when they already have her business. Even though she has a point, the conversation just goes on too long and can be a bit unsettling.

I draw strength to keep helping her from my memories of when we were both younger women, but mostly from when she was a younger woman and I was a girl who’s middle name could have been “Dramarama.” She supported me through my teen angst years, so I figure that I can make it through the tarnished moments of her golden ones.

I also have been successful at not reacting, kept calm by the low energy associated with my sadness from watching a woman, who for so long could handle anything thrown at her, become rattled by the inconsequential. Read Care.com's article on senior caregiving coping strategies »

My hope is that good karma will come back to me when it inevitably becomes my turn to start repeating the story of “the neighbor who said…” to my children one too many times. With any luck, eye rolling and sighing will be kept to a minimum.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

This election year we’ve been challenged constantly as to whether we’re better off than we were four years ago. What they are talking about is finances: Do you still have a job? Is there more or less money in your take-home? Can you afford to buy or keep your home? Are companies hiring or laying off?

This are big picture issues that we all need to be concerned with, but each family has its own personal issues and so I looked at mine to see how we are faring.

In 2008, the crash devastated many. I remember waiting to pick up my then-fifth grade daughter Meg from school and hearing one mother say to another, “Well, now all the divorces start.” Luckily that did not happen to my marriage.

Although, my husband kept his job, he is more stressed now as four years ago our son Luke was starting high school, and now he’s applying to colleges where tuition is three times as much, the economy is worse and job security is a punchline.

Back then, 14-year-old Luke was a freshman as well as baseball catcher. Now he is a senior playing rugby. He is more self-sufficient these days, and leaving the sport he played for ten years, I believe is part of his exerting independence and showing that he’ll be making his own decisions, thank you very much.

Even though I will miss him when he leaves for college, I am confident that he will be able to navigate the world; but currently the world is a more depressed, angrier, hurting place than it was when Luke was in 9th grade. So my assurance in him is often eclipsed by my fear of everyone else.

Soon-to-be-15 Meg is more autonomous as well. She takes the city transportation now instead of the always-a-drama school bus, which has reduced my headaches considerably. But they have been replaced by the anxieties that go along with being the mother of a teenage girl.

As my children have progressed and are moving away from me (literally and figuratively) my mother is moving closer, aka clinging. Four years ago she was 86, her hearing aids helped a lot and her sight was better. She was a walker who could cover many city blocks in an afternoon and found her time outdoors invigorating. Distance is no longer her friend and her walks are shorter and tire her out quicker. The hearing aids have become virtually useless. I repeat everything I say so many times I sound like a myna bird. But she’s still here with me and that gives me comfort.

So am I better off? Even though circumstances have changed, some for the better, others not, life is basically the same in the sense that there are always good things that happen along side downfalls. Gratitude for the former is what gets one through the latter.

I assume this will hold true for the next four years regardless of who is president, so I’ll continue to tap into my inner “Nemo” and just keep swimming.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

As I learn more about Lindsay Lohan’s shenanigans and fights with her mother through E!, TMZ and the New York Post, I am reminded that mother-daughter arguing is quite the time-honored tradition -- especially in my home.

Although our dustups don’t and never have involved the police, limos, large sums of cash or cocaine, my 14-year-old daughter Meg and I seem to have picked up where my mother and I left off decades ago, except with a role reversal for me.

“It’s time to get up. Will you get up? I said up, now. Get out of that bed!” Is that my voice I hear as Meg clings to the mattress, begging for five more minutes? Or is it the voice of my mother echoing in my mind? Even though I used to cover my head with my pillow, her screams that I was going to be late were never muffled.

Then there was the ever popular, “You’re eating again? We just had dinner an hour ago.” As I have been on a diet since I was 13, I recall these accusatory words as my mother’s version of encouragement to keep me on track of whichever weight loss program -- ranging from the sensible to the simply ridiculous -- I was on that week. I now use this same neurotic phrasing out of fear that my daughter will live her life riding the I’m fat, I’m thin yo-yo. As much as I try to stop myself, since I know the resent it breeds and “revenge eating” it can initiate, my emotional triggers sometimes just get the best of me.

Now, just as back then, the tried-and-true dramas always win out:

“I don’t care who else is going, you can’t. Because I said so, that’s why.” This usually involves a party where the soiree-throwing teen is just a name that’s been bandied about, not someone who’s ever appeared in person, and the parents are unknown quantities.

“That’s too much makeup. Yes it is. Go wash your face. Now. I didn’t say you couldn’t wear it. You just can’t wear it like that. I’ll put it on for you. Yes, I do know how.”

“You’re not leaving the house in that outfit. I don’t care if (then: Cher, now: Demi Lovato) has it. If she wants to dance around on TV with her bellybutton showing, that’s her business. Please change now. Yes, I do know ‘anything’ about fashion.” 

Then you have the coup de grâce of the mother-daughter brouhaha: “Boyfriend? Wait, come back here. What boyfriend?”

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

What’s that saying about not getting older, but getting better?

According to a survey from ABC News and People magazine, “I Love Lucy” was voted the best TV show of all time. Lucille Ball, who has been dead for 23 years, would be 101 today. Yet the most famous redhead of all is still showing what’s what to her younger counterparts currently reigning in comedy, like the Kathy Griffins, Chelsea Handlers or Whitney Cummings of the entertainment world.

I couldn’t help but see the parallel to my mother and myself in this story. In a month, she will be 90, and can still best me every time.

My mother lived an interesting life before I was born, and after I arrived, it became a hard one. She was a single, working mother before such a status was accepted by society. She has forgotten more about how life works than I will probably ever know.

For a long time, however, I wouldn’t give her credit for knowing anything. You see, when I was a young woman, I knew everything.  Compared to me, she was un-modern. If I had a dollar for each time I uttered, “You don’t get how things are now,” I could give millions back to her as an apology.

Of course, what goes around comes around.

My mother once said, “I hope you have ten daughters just like you.” I don’t need ten; one is quite enough. From my Meg, who is 14, I hear those familiar words about my ignorance on what seems like a daily basis. It’s funny -- I went from knowing everything in my 20s, to knowing nothing in my 50s, if her assertions are true.

But they are not. Although I will probably never be as wise as my mother, I have been around the block enough times to hold my own. Neither Meg, nor even her 17-year-old brother, Luke, will most likely give me credit for it though -- until they are old enough to know better.

People do get older, and stay as good as they ever were. Sometimes though it takes those around them a lifetime to appreciate it.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

This past Labor Day weekend took many turns. There was the busy day, the lazy day and then the family day that I spent with my husband Neil's relatives. We were three generations under one roof in Long Beach, New York: On one end were his parents, who have been married 56 years and represent the Golden Years, and on the other end were the Wonder Years -- their seven grandchildren ranging in age from 6 to 17.

Of course, Neil and I were in the middle, along with his six siblings and four spouses-in-law.

As part of a "Sandwich" group, sharing the who needs what duties, it felt less like serving two masters on either side of the age spectrum and more about having a moment to step back and celebrate those who came before us and those who will carry on after us.

One of my best multigenerational memories is from my daughter Meg's christening party. When I was holding her, my cousin (who is 20 years older than I am) said to me, "I remember when you were that tiny." Then my mother (who is about 16 years older than my cousin) said to her, "And I remember when you were that small." And as though we were playing a friendly game of Can You Top This?, my aunt (who was about 10 years older than my mother) said to her, "Well, I remember when you were that size." It was funny and yet endearing at the same time. It also gave me a sense of connection; people having a long presence in each other’s lives.

I envision the family members I was with over Labor Day having a similar conversation down the road, perhaps at a party for a child of one of our children.

When that happens, I will no longer be in the center of the sandwich, but on the Golden end of the equation. I hope those I care for now will have learned from my example and be the sandwich for me.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

All good things must come to an end -- at least on TV -- so I watched the season finale of USA Network’s Political Animals and bid it a fond farewell, hoping it will be picked up for an actual full season. (USA called the six episodes a “Limited Series Event”.)

If you haven’t had the pleasure, it’s about a divorced, former First Lady, Elaine Barrish Hammond (Sigourney Weaver), who is currently serving as the Secretary of State, while trying to keep her family together.

Her brood consists of 30-year-old Cain and Abel–like twins: Douglas (his mother’s chief of staff) and T.J. (a drug addict, who also plays a mean piano). On the other end of the spectrum is her irascible mother, Margaret (played with cocktail-swilling gusto by Ellen Burstyn). Like my 90-year-old mother, Burstyn’s character ascribes to the belief that she has earned the right to say whatever she wants to whomever she wants -- and whenever.

I love this show -- not because Sigourney plays a powerful woman, but because she is a Sandwich, whose life is dedicated to saving her troubled T.J., planning Doug’s wedding, contending with Margaret and her oft-times slurred two-cents. All while helping to rule the free world.

Every time Elaine sighs and snaps, “Mother will you please…” I wonder where the network’s production team has hidden the bug in my house, because it sounds as though they’re dubbing my voice for Sigourney’s.

Then there’s the other scenario I’ve come to know, where she’s dealing with her two children. The tone she congers up implies, “Oh good, what have you done that I have to fix now?” (Aside from drugs, T.J. had an ill-fated affair with a married member of Congress, while Doug cheated on his fiancée with a reporter whose writing an all-access story about Elaine.) The look on her face screams, “Really, is there no end?”

No, Elaine, there isn’t. Trust me. Every time you turn around, you’re getting a request/question/story of some kind from one generation or the other. And then your job calls.

In the end though, Elaine gets it all done. Like many of today’s parents who welcome their grown children back home, she moves T.J. into her house to help him get back on his feet. Despite that fact that they bicker, she likes having her mother about, as Margaret is a reminder of what strength looks like, having raised Elaine as a single mother. She then forgives Doug for relinquishing all the “this head of state can’t sit near that prime minister” wedding plans in favor of elopement, and crashes the impromptu ceremony, because there is no way in hell she will not see her son get married, even if it’s in a field in the middle of nowhere. Right before that though, she managed to hold the United States government together during a national crisis (Air Force One crashed.) But probably the most important thing she did all day was take a few minutes in the evening, to sit alone outside in the backyard and just breathe -- so she could start all over tomorrow.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

My 87-year-old aunt/godmother, Evelyn, is in the hospital recovering from open-heart surgery. She is a widow, who never had children. Not only has Aunt Evie been my Auntie Mame, but she has been my second mother as well.

When Aunt Evie was admitted into the hospital, she chose me as her healthcare proxy.

That of course does not stop my 90-year-old mother or my 14-year-old daughter, Meg, from getting into the act. You would never know I'm supposedly “in charge”. Actually, you'd never know the hospital personnel are actually in charge either.

After Aunt Evie finally got settled in her room, it was way past lunch and too early for dinner. The woman was just plain hungry. On her behalf, I requested that the staff bring her a tuna sandwich, which she specifically asked for. They said okay, and my mother, Meg and I continued to watch the Olympics, as well as our loved one drift in and out of sleep.

I took the opportunity during this quiet moment to step out of the room into the waiting area to make some phone calls, because also on my list of those I tend to (besides the aforementioned trio), is a husband, Neil, and a 17-year-old son, Luke. I also work with clients who give me writing assignments. What could possibly happen during such a short absence?

About fifteen minutes later, I returned to the room and was stopped by a nurse who apologized profusely for upsetting my mother. The puzzled look on my face was his cue to begin explaining how she started screaming at him and the entire nursing staff that had yet to deliver the requested tuna sandwich. As I have been screamed at by my mother for the last half-century, I can tell you from experience that when she lays into you, you hop to it. He was very understanding as I tried to smooth things over with the medical team by mentioning my mom’s age and how stressful this whole situation is for her.

I then entered the room and was not surprised in the least to find a sandwich sitting on the L-shaped rolling table that serves as my aunt’s dining tray/desk.

A little later, Aunt Evie needed to use the bathroom. Meg insisted on helping her. I told that girl in no uncertain terms to let the second nurse do her job. Meg then told us all in no uncertain terms that no one could cater to our aunt with the love she could. I looked sheepishly at the RN and, with smiling eyes, she looked back at me as if to say, “It's nice that the young lady cares so much about the older woman.” I responded with a, “Sorry, what can I tell you?” shrug.

I must admit that as frustrating as my mother and daughter can be, I admire their headstrong ways and ability to get things done. Make no mistake, I too get things done, but in perhaps a more subtle manner.

I have decided that to get us through this rather harrowing situation, (FYI: my aunt is coming along quite nicely after her operation) I have to see my mother and Meg, not as adversaries who want to antagonize me by not doing things as I do, but as members of Team Evie, each bringing a different and valuable skill set to complement what I have to offer.

Ultimately, in a critical moment, I am the one in charge. I have to admit though, I’m glad that I’m not doing this alone and appreciate the help, even when the help has all the earmarks of a hindrance.