I moved from Argentina to the US. Now I’m torn between spending time with my young kids or my aging parents.

Growing up, I always told my parents I was never getting married or having kids.

It was a blow to them, because I’m an only child and they were really looking forward to being grandparents.

Fast forward many decades, and I met my now-husband, who changed my mind.

I saw him play with our friends’ kids and figured if I was going to try to have kids with someone, it’d be with him and him only.

I’m now the mom of three kids ages 8 and under.

My parents are in their 80s, and I feel a constant pull to be there for all of them at the same time.

Exactly 16 years ago, I moved from Argentina, where I am from, to the US to attend grad school.

My intention was to come for a year and move back home.

I had left my apartment, my cat, and a boyfriend who said he’d wait for me.

But after graduating, I got a job that sponsored my visa, and encouraged by my dad, I decided to give living in the US a try.

My intention was never to live so far away from my parents, but one thing led to the next.

I met my now husband, we had kids, bought a house, and now I need to travel almost 24 hours to get a proper hug from the people who raised me.

While I see my parents often, it is becoming increasingly expensive.

I can tell how quickly time is ticking between visits.

My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s years ago, and while her condition is stable, I sometimes don’t recognize her.

My dad has battled multiple cancers throughout his life, and while still very active, he is slowing down.

The situation we’re in breaks my heart because I want to be with them for the mundane, not just the extravagant splurges like going to see Argentina play in the World Cup, just in case it’s the last one we see together.

At the same time, I feel guilty for not always being there to watch my kids grow up.

It’s cliché, but so very true, that the years are so short with them.

I look back at photos from just last summer and can tell how quickly time is flying by.

My 8-year-old can now wear the same shoe size as me, and I find myself packing boxes of hand-me-down clothes almost every month.

I’m sure being an only child exacerbates all my feelings, but I also know I’m not the only one stuck in the sandwich years — watching my kids growing up and my parents getting older.

All I really want is to bottle up all the fleeting moments with them.

When my kids ask me for a snuggle before bed, I do it even though I have a pile of laundry to fold, because one day they won’t ask for that anymore.

When my mom calls me in the middle of dinner, I always pick up because soon she might not know how to use a phone anymore.

I take photos of my kids doing the little things, only to turn around and do the same with my parents.

I want to remember it all before it’s gone.

The pull in two directions never lets up.

But maybe that’s not a problem to solve — maybe it’s just what it feels like to be this loved, and to love this much.