It’s been two months since I wrote.

Winter. Peak hygge season, but this year I’ve been torn between wanting to hibernate and having to act. I’d like to spend the worst of the cold months at home, snuggled under my blanket sipping tea and rewatching favourite old films and instead I’ve been spending way more time than I have available on working in the office, sitting with my parents or feeling under the weather myself.

That last one has probably had a big impact on my mood, I think. I have an almost constant cold going on somewhere, including a left ear that blocks on a whim (one week and counting now, for the third time in three months) and aching fingers. My office area is cold or hot with no comfortable middle, so I have the choice to freeze or fry.

I’ve also lost my love for social media. Any of it. It makes me discontented, because I look back at how blogs, Facebook, Insta worked when it first started and we were so foolishly happy. Things were always just okay, we had just enough, the bloggers I hung about with wrote about soft stuff like the books they read, the crafts they were doing and the family news they had. There weren’t many, so you got to know them and even their pet’s names (Jo at Through the Keyhole, and her dog Archie were a regular love. She’s on Instagram now and still as beautiful although less verbose). Instagram is like getting a postcard when the old days were like getting a lovely long letter. I suppose I should be glad it’s not TikToks which are rather more like the voicemail you receive from the daughter at 3 in the morning when she’s drunk and doesn’t say anything more sensible than she loves you while singing whatever the latest crazy-but-rude-but-the-young-like-it pop song is. I’m growing older. I think that’s what.

But mostly I think my discontent is because my time is shrinking. I’m the sandwich generation, and I never fully realised how thin the ham in the middle of a butty can feel.

The offspring are lovely, don’t get me wrong, and I’m happy to be their parent and there to help with worries, journeys, home or hanging out. I know they’re not there forever, and that the day will come when She doesn’t send me messages saying ‘Pink’ or ‘Red’ (family code words for how drunk she was the night before) I also know that Second Son won’t always want to have a lift off me to Wales or Staffordshire or Derbyshire to walk around a lake or up a small hill with his overweight and breathless Mum before being set free to explore more alone. We haven’t done that too much in the winter, but the sun is shining and I have plans. I’m making the most of their presence in my life before they all move out and I can spend the day sorting paperwork or painting or sipping pink wine without fear of being disturbed or requisitioned.

My parents are a different kettle of fish. They’re in their 80s and, up until a couple of years ago, quite independent. It’s always been fun to visit them, because Dad has a dry sense of humour and Mum loves to talk about everything: books, family, the news, her childhood, her Mum (my Nan), what was happening in church, how people were at the social group they went to for dinner dances. She’s immensely proud of and involved in the lives of all her children (four of us) and grandchildren (ten of them) and now great-grandchildren (four, at the moment). When my three were small, they were in their 60s and had them for afternoons, days and weekends to give us a break, which I was always and still am eternally grateful for. Covid did a number on them, though, as I suspect it did for a few elderly people, and since then Mum and, to a lesser extent, Dad have been more cautious about going out.

Perhaps it’s unfair to blame just Covid, but that’s the public reason I am happy to give. Mum’s hip issues, knee issues and other physical health issues certainly play a part but I am pretty sure that she now has as many mental blocks to going out as she had physical. Even two years ago I could arrange a get together with her teaching colleague friend from school and she’d be up, ready and raring to go to the cafe with her, with me as a rather untidy chauffeur tagging along. Her enthusiasm for things is fading.

I’ve seen this before. Nan went along the same lines as time went by, and Mum has never been a fighter against aging. She’s stopped caring about little things like make up, hair style and clothes beyond comfort. She doesn’t cook, ever, doesn’t *do* anything around the house and doesn’t appear to spend her time doing anything except watching TV and reading online newspapers. Her hands hurt, her wrists are sore, so much crafting, sewing, writing is off the cards. Her eyesight is worsening (she says) so she doesn’t like reading. And besides which, she told me, she can’t hold the story in her head long enough for book, audible or film.

Her hearing has gone down, as has Dad’s, and the two of them sometimes sit there talking to each other in increasingly loud volumes. Dad has a beard, so his diction is not the clearest, but Mum has a hearing aid she refuses to wear because it hurts. Everything hurts. Everything.

Everything is too hard, too fast, too much bother, takes too much energy. She’s not well, she has a chest, she has a cough, a pain in various regions, she just aches. You’re handling her wrong, you’re rushing her, you talked too loudly, spoke too softly, her tea is too hot, the food is too hard, the weather is too grey, too sunny, too cold, too hot, too rainy, too weather. Get her on a bad day and life itself is out to get her. On a good day, she’s going to rule the world.

And in the meantime my Dad just keeps going on. His brows droop, his beard grows and is cut (by a Granddaughter, who is beautiful), he pootles in the garden, drives his car in and out of the garage, shops little and often except if he can borrow a Trolley-pusher to take to Costco, when he stocks up on water and freezer food. He bought a pergola to build and, once he nade up his mind it was time to erect it, used next door to cement the posts, Second Son to cut down the crossbeams and his own younger brother on a fortuitously timed trip from Ireland (make it four nights, not two. Two isn’t enough for what I have planned) to complete it. He rings his siblings in Ireland, follows family on Facebook and loves the almost-daily Facetimes with three of his Great Grandchildren. He’s not as agile as he once was, and he looks an awful lot more like a garden gnome than ever as he sets off down the garden with his hat and his checked jacket on… but he doesn’t stop.

I work full time, all be it for a very accommodating employer who gives me a midweek afternoon to go and sit and entertain Ma while Dad goes out. We’ve re-jiggled weekends, too, so I now go on a Friday if I’m busy or on a Saturday afternoon with food for the evening meal and little else to do except watch the racing (no bets, but pick the horse you like). It’s only two afternoons, but I feel guilty not doing more. I think a bit of me is holding back in anticipation of the need to do more. When Dad gets ill, or Mum gets worse (if the sniping turns to fighting, what then? At what point does bad-mouthing become abuse?) I know I’ll need to be there more often. I have worked with women who went straight from school to parent to provide care. I’ve also known women who worked extra hours to have money to spend on care for parents too far away to visit. I’m thankful that my parents live nine short miles away and that a daily visit, though inconvenient, would be possible.

But I’m also aware that there may come a point at which my skills or patience isn’t enough. When I’ll need to get the professionals in. It worries me, because social care and elderly provision has never been exactly golden in this country. Perhaps because it lies outside the NHS provision, it’s been a minefield to organise or obtain. Whatever, when the time comes, it’ll be something we need to do as a family. Whether that’s day care for a couple of hours, home care for intimate support morninga nd evening or assisted living, moving out of the house and into a flat or home with married accommodation. I don’t know.

I’d say it’s a lot like having children, except when you have a baby someone hands you a manual and says ‘These are the milestones to look out for’. And, mostly, you follow the manual for crawling, walking, potty training, school, abstract concept thinking and assertion of independence of the person. You know, with very few exceptions, that this child will be independent by 16 and hopefully moved out somewhere in adulthood. Even if they’re not, leaving them for a weekend, a week or a fortnight is no worries. They’re capable, they’ll look after themselves.

When your parents age there is no manual. No timetable. No actual fixed end in sight, except the end you don’t want to face and yet know you must. There’s no set path, no universal experience, except that of losing someone you love. Lose them before death due to senility, or afterwards due to illness. Whatever. It’s a cruel business, aging, and one that there’s obviously not much money or glamour in. People don’t rush to congratulate you on an elderly parent, or race to buy you dresses, nappies and blankets. And yet, you need all of those just the same.

Shops don’t advertise Wheelchair Clubs: pay a little every week and this marvellous fashionably cream model can be yours. You don’t see incontinence pads, mobility aids and easy grip peelers in supermarket shelves grouped together under the banner “Caring for Elders: Get Your Equipment Here”. And even Aldi doesn’t have Disability or Elderly weeks with quite the same elan as they do the Baby Weeks and Student Weeks.

I’m being sniffy. You still get support from the same people you did before: your friends going through the same situation now, or those who have been through it already, or the white-faced who know they have it yet to come. You gather together, grasping at the black humour that sees you describing the stairlift like a rocket plate taking off, or the whiplash differences in desire from one second to the next. And you share furtive addresses (‘these have comfy joggers on sale: this shop has winceyette nighties three for two. There’s a sale on comfy cotton knickers on this week; shall I pick up a six-pack?’)

I don’t know how long this stage of my life will last. Months? Years? A decade seems unlikely, but one never knows. All I do know is that I will adapt and survive at every stage, sense of humour intact, and face set forward. I know many people who are in the same stage. I know many who have been through this stage and are heading towards my parents. It’s life, with all its wonders, joys and trials. Oh, yes, life has trials. Life happens, and we just get on with it.

Thank you for reading so far. I don’t expect anything, except sympathy and any advice you have for handling hard life stages. Hygge keeps me going, March is making me feel happier already, and I have things to do, if I can claw back some time. And my Hygge Nook family, of course, are invaluable. Their posts give me hope. I’d also need to mention my church family. I think sometimes the quiet support and love of a worshipping community can be undervalued. I value belonging there, even if some weeks I get no more than a gentle word in the service from an old friend.

How to Hygge the British Way is my gift to the world. I don’t get paid for writing it, I’m not in it for the kudos, financial rewards, to become an influencer, work with brands or otherwise make any money from the blog. That’s why there are no ads, and any products I mention and recommend have either been gifted to me or bought by me with my everyday wages or donations from supporters. Every book I review has been bought and read by me, unless stated otherwise.

I do get a couple of pennies each time someone buys from the Amazon links on my page, as an Amazon Affiliate, but otherwise if you’d like to support me, I like to give something back in return. That’s why I write books. It always feels good if you get a book back in return for some money. You can find a full list of my books at my Author’s Page on Amazon, but especially recommended for this time of year are:

Cosy Happy Hygge: Setting up a rhythm to life and rituals to enjoy it to make for a more balanced life that handles waves and storms better. Lent is a season of rituals and resets. The book has small and easy ways to make your life flow with grace and happiness, which lead to more hygge.

Happier: Probably my most personal book, it’s the story of how I used hygge and the little things in life to help boost my happiness. I still go back and reread to remind myself what I need to do to be a happy human. And it’s always the little things.

Is it too early to think ahead? My Christmas books are always available: Have Yourself a Happy Hygge Christmas is a good place to start, on how to make the season cosier, happier. Celebrating a Contagious Christmas was written during covid year, but has useful advice on celebrating when times are hard anyway and Enjoying a Self-Care Christmas is a short e-book on keeping Christmas simpler, easier and better for you, your waistline and your budget. It even includes 25+ suggestions for self-care activities over Christmas, as simple as sipping tea, keeping a list journal or lighting a candle. Bigger is not always better for Christmas.

I’m currently working on two book projects: I have a hankering to rewrite 50 Ways to Hygge the British Way, so it’s not available at the moment, but even dearer to my heart and my next stated aim is to finish and publish my next book, Simple Plus Cosy = Hygge. It will be about homemaking and how the home we create shapes the hygge we have. Hopefully it will be finished by the end of summer/autumn/winter 2024 or 2025.

If you’d like to support me, but don’t want to buy a book, I have a Paypal.Me account as Hygge Jem. Every little helps, so even a few pence goes towards the books, goods and courses I use and recommend on the site. I’m grateful for every little bit that brings me closer to my dream of full-time writing, and I know I couldn’t still be writing if it weren’t for the support of many readers and friends out there. Thank you all for every little bit of support, emotional, physical and financial, you give me.

If you’ve enjoyed this article, don’t forget to share it or save it so others can enjoy reading, thinking about and living hygge as well.

The photo between post and promotions is by Debby Hudson on Unsplash. Red tulips, ready to add a dash of Spring to my life. What better?