Lisa Goldberg Brown
There was a time, before group texts with doctors, before coordinating pill organizers and paying college tuition in the same afternoon, when Mother’s Day looked like a glossy magazine spread.
You know the one: soft morning light, a tray of perfectly arranged croissants, maybe a mimosa sweating gently beside a vase of peonies. Children appear, freshly scrubbed and emotionally articulate, whispering, “Don’t get up, Mom, we’ve got everything handled.”
Adorable. Fictional. Bless its heart.
Welcome to Mother’s Day in the Sandwich Generation, where “having it all” mostly means having it all happen at once. You are the peanut butter between two slices of very needy bread: one crusty, one crustless, both requiring completely different kinds of attention and neither remotely interested in your mimosa.
The Dream:
You sleep in. Deep, restorative, REM-cycle sleep. No one needs you. Not for a ride, not for a refill, not for a Wi-Fi password you’ve already given out 47 times. You wake up naturally, like a forest nymph, to birdsong and the distant hum of someone else doing the dishes.
The Reality:
You wake up at 6:12 a.m. because your mom texted “Call me when you’re up” at 5:48 a.m., which is her version of sleeping in. The dog is staring at you like you owe him money. And your college-aged kid is texting from their room asking if you can “just look over” a resume or help solve a minor life crisis that somehow requires your full executive function.
You briefly consider pretending you’re not awake. You fail.
The Dream:
Breakfast in bed. The kids made it themselves! There are bagels, lox, avocado toast, and a handwritten card that says something deeply moving about your unconditional love and emotional labor.
The Reality:
Breakfast is technically in bed if you count the protein bar you ate while toggling between your pharmacy app and a group chat titled “Family Logistics.” Your card arrives via text: “HMD!! love u!!” plus a meme. Or a TikTok. Or a last-minute Amazon delivery that may or may not arrive today.
Meanwhile, your brain is already running inventory: Does Mom have enough groceries? Did Dad take his meds? Did I RSVP to that thing? Why is there always a thing?
The Dream:
You spend the day doing something indulgent: maybe a spa, maybe brunch with friends, and a Bloody Mary or two.
The Reality:
You do go to brunch. You also bring your mom, because she shouldn’t be alone, and your daughter, who has strong opinions about bottomless mimosas and life choices, and your son, who still eats like he’s training for a competitive sport but now wants to debate interest rates or his career path over eggs Benedict.
You spend half the meal translating the menu for one generation and picking up the tab for the other.
The Dream:
You are celebrated. Fully seen. Appreciated in a way that lands deep in your bones.
The Reality:
You are appreciated, just in a more nuanced way. Your mom says, “Now you know what it’s like,” which somehow manages to be both a compliment and a warning. Your kids, now towering over you, hug you, linger a second longer than they used to, then drift back to their lives, which you helped build and are still somehow managing from the sidelines.
And somewhere in between everyone else’s needs, you catch a quiet moment where it hits you: you’re doing it. All of it. Imperfectly and often invisibly, but you’re holding the center.
And that’s the part no one puts on the brunch menu.
Because here’s the thing about being a Sandwich Generation mom: Mother’s Day isn’t a break from motherhood. It’s a masterclass in it. You are the bridge and the logistics manager. The emotional first responder. The one who remembers who likes their coffee how, who needs a follow-up appointment, who’s pretending they’re fine and who just texted “I’m good” but absolutely is not.
You are, in short, the glue. Slightly sticky, occasionally stretched too thin, but still holding it all together.
So what now?
Maybe your version of “rest” is 20 uninterrupted minutes in your car before you go inside. Maybe your “spa treatment” is a long shower where no one knocks. Maybe your “perfect meal” is one you didn’t cook, even if it comes in a takeout container with a missing fork.
Take the win. Claim the moment. Eat the good chocolate you hid from everyone else.
And if you end up with food on your sleeve? Wear it like a badge. It means you showed up. For your kids. For your parents. For the whole messy, beautiful, exhausting middle.
Just maybe not for the mimosa.
There’s always next year.
Lisa Goldberg Brown is a mother of college-age and newly launched children. Her writing reflects the humor, heart and perspective that come from surviving the late 90s and early 2000s in NYC and raising a family into adulthood.
