I'm part of the 'sandwich generation.' I take care of my 2 teens and my 84-year-old mom.

• I'm a sandwich-generation parent, taking care of my kids and my mom at the same time.
• My mom has Alzheimer's, and I had her move next to us so I could care for her.

When I debated with friends recently whether it was better to have kids early or be an older mom, our list of pros and cons included energy, financial stability, emotional maturity, and fertility — it did not include caring for an elderly parent. And certainly not one with dementia.

Like many of my peers, I ended up having my kids later in life, pretty much ensuring my sandwich-generation status. The term was coined in the early 1980s, but there's nothing new about parents finding themselves with kids at home and older parents who require assistance.

People are living longer and expectations are higher for parents

The expectations surrounding parenting and the realities of caretaking have changed. People are having kids later in life, and many parents feel pressure to make their kids the focus of all their energy and attention — curating their activities, ensuring their physical and emotional well-being, and battling the negative influence of social media, all while maintaining a career and a Pinterest-perfect home.

Thanks to medical advances, our parents are living longer and consequently are more likely to suffer from some sort of cognitive impairment. Rising costs of living and care leave many of them without sufficient resources to see them through to the end of their lives. In the US, friends, family, and other unpaid caregivers provide 83% of the care, and most are women.

This is how I found myself caring for two teens and a mother.

I'm emotionally tapped out

I love sandwiches. The middle of the sandwich is the good bit. (There's a reason open-faced sandwiches are so popular.) But as the metaphorical middle, caring for my mother with Alzheimer's and my two teens feels less like the good bit and more like I'm standing between train doors constantly snapping shut on me.

My kids are incredible, but even the easiest ones are hard work. My girls go to different schools to meet their different needs. Each child participates in their own after-school activities, and without reliable public transportation, getting them where they need to go is a challenge.

Factor in hormones, school demands, and a child who struggles with perfectionism — as well as all the meal planning, shopping, cooking, social engagements, calendar management, and the various pets needing yet another vet visit — I am emotionally tapped out before I've even tried to squeeze in my own work.

It's hard to care for your carer

No matter how challenging I find parenting, it pales in comparison to the excruciating experience of watching my guiding light, the person who embodied all that was safe in the world, lose the ability to make even the simplest decision.

I lovingly "forced" my mom to move next door for safety and financial reasons. If change is hard for most of us, it is off the charts for someone with dementia. I'd imagined having my mom near me as this wonderful bonding experience for my girls. I was excited to have family support for the first time since becoming a mom.

Instead, I became the 24-hour helpline: problems with the remote, the internet, no hot water, the cellphone, the electric stovetop. None of these things were broken. She just kept forgetting how to use them in a new place.

Now that she needs full-time supervision, my kids are with my ex, and I live with my mom part time. I manage the household and I'm still Ms. Fix-it, but that's the easy part. I am the one she wants to spend time with and the punching bag for her frustrations. I am the one who takes care of her when she's sick and confused, who has to hold her in my arms as she sits in the bathroom and I try to persuade her to let me remove her soiled clothes. I am wanted and needed constantly.

There are days when I dream of checking into a hotel to hide under the covers, away from the world — no questions, no requests, no advice, no coaching, no soothing, no being the safe refuge. Just me and a bowl of chicken-noodle soup.