Journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall reports from the the second half of life -- on books, writing . . . her husband, house, aging relatives and grown-up kids.
Within a few weeks of hip surgery, my mother was doing physical therapy at a skilled nursing facility. Photo 2010 BF Newhall
Barbara Falconer Newhall, June 5, 2010
Ten reasons why I’m finding it impossible to write about my 92-year-old mother, even though she’s all I can think about right now:
My mother with her grandchildren on the beach at Lake Michigan in 1987. Photo by BF Newhall.
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
The Oakland Tribune, Sunday, September 27, 1987
“Move,” said Peter. “I want to get by.”
My mother looked up from her book and gave my 6 1/2-year-old a hard look. She was sitting on her sofa, in her house, feet up on her coffee table. Reluctantly, she moved her feet to let Peter by. He squeezed wordlessly past. [Read more...]
Christina went off to kindergarten, got chicken pox and broke her arm. c 1989 B.F. Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
I was on the phone with my mentor. “Tell me it gets easier,” I sighed.’
“Well, actually it gets harder,” said Nancy.
Nancy has a daughter three years older than Peter. She keeps me briefed on the parenting realities ahead.
The kids were still pre-schoolers then, and it had been another night of sleep deprivation for me. The dream monster had been nibbling on Christina’s finger again. And, once again, I had been up at 2 a.m. sharp to escort Peter and his developing bladder to the bathroom.
“Kindergarten,” I promised myself as I felt my way back to bed in the dark. “Kindergarten,” I sighed as I bumped into Jon’s side of the bed again. “Rrngh,” grumbled Jon – again. Jon was looking forward to kindergarten, too. If we could just survive preschool, things would get better.
Mothering school-age kids would be a piece of cake after this. Having two of those dear, middle-aged children with the bony knees and the freckled noses would be fun.
No more nightmares. No more Play Dough on the kitchen floor. No more jam in the hair.
Once they reached kindergarten, Peter and Christina would be old enough to talk, but not old enough to talk back. They would be post-Oedipal, but pre-pubescent.
We could go camping together. We could travel. Our children would hang on our words as Jon and I introduced them to baseball, politics, art, books – all the things we loved.
Right Nancy?
But my mentor is not one to pull punches.
“No. It gets harder,” she insisted. “It’s a different set of worries, and it’s harder. They have problems at school or with their friends. They’re too fat. They’re too thin. They’re not chosen for the school play. They don’t want to do the things you want them to do.”
“But I will be sleeping through the night, won’t I?” If I could just get enough sleep, I reasoned, things would at least seem better.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “And you don’t have to watch them every minute. But you do worry more.”
And so it is.
Our children are ages 5 and 8 now. They’re grownup kids. They can take themselves to the potty. They know the difference between the knife and the fork, though they still prefer the finger and the thumb. When they squirt the mustard these days, most of it lands on the hot dog.
When reminded, they do their homework, feed the cats and empty the garbage. Without reminding, they collect their allowance and find the way to the kitchen at the sound of popcorn popping.
She can button her own shirt, if the buttons are in front. When they are not, she problem solves. She wears the shirt backward.
He can tie his own shoelaces. On special occasions, he does.
He knows where his laundry hamper is located. And now that he is 8, he can place things in it from across the room with grace and accuracy – the soccer ball, the homework pencil, the wet bathing suit.
Now that she is 5, she can put her Cinderella tape into the VCR. She can turn on the TV, though she still can’t turn it off.
As Nancy forewarned, Peter now has opinions. The six plaid, flannel lumberjack shirts bought on sale last fall are not cool. The King Tut T-shirt with the stain and the rip is.
Peter the middle-aged kid: Not quite an angel. c 1989 B.F. Newhall.
Peter does not want to go to the art day camp, the one with the beautiful, woodsy setting and the hours so convenient to mom’s work schedule. He is looking for a football camp that takes 8-year-olds.
Unlike his parents and grandparents before him, Peter is not drawn to a career in journalism. He does not look forward to the examined life, a life in service to humanity. He wants to go to law school and make money.
As infants and toddlers, Christina and Peter were angels. They were God’s carefully wrought gifts to Jon, Barbara and human history. They glowed with newness and perfection. Their eyes were wide with infinite potential.
But now the teeth are coming in crooked. The skin is marred by chicken pox scars. She bumps into things when she runs. He is still afraid to draw. We worry that he is too gregarious, that she is too shy.
My darlings are not perfection after all. They are not angels. It grieves me to have to report that my children apparently will be bumbling through life as mere humans, just like mom and dad.
But I can take it. I’m tough. I got a good night’s sleep last night.
© 1989 The Oakland Tribune
More about life’s ambiguities at “Time to Crack Open That Hope Chest and Live a Little.”
Peter Newhall and his father, Jon Newhall. c 1981 B.F. Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
The Oakland Tribune, July 12, 1987
Have things changed since I wrote this piece for the Oakland Tribune? Are men taking on real child-rearing responsibilities? Or are they still just helping? Are women willing to cede some of their mom turf — are they letting the guys choose the pediatrician? The car seats? The hair bows?
Carol calls them “the little inequities.”
She is talking about the small, countless ways that men fail to notice what needs to be done for their children.
At breakfast, 2-year-old Max drops a spoon to the floor. John is reading the newspaper – he has to read it for his job.
Carol has to read the paper for her job, too. But it is she who notices that the spoon has fallen. She picks it up.
John and Carol have visitors. Max is about to walk into the living room eating a bagel slathered with cream cheese and jam.
Carol is talking to a guest. She would like to keep on talking – but jam is dripping off Max’s bagel.
John, engrossed in conversation with another guest, is unaware that a jammy bagel is headed for the living room.
Carol interrupts her conversation to steer Max back to the kitchen. John keeps talking.
“It’s their coping strategy,” says Carol of today’s fathers. “They fail to notice.”
Make no mistake. “John is a saint among fathers,” she is quick to add. He does the laundry. He dresses his children. He keeps them entertained while Carol sleeps in.
Indeed, John does a good 40 percent of the child care at their house, says Carol. For that 40 percent, however he gets tremendous sympathy and help.
“When I went out of town to a union conference,” says Carol, “John got dinner invitations for a week. When he is out of town, no one thinks to invite me for dinner.”
That’s because child-rearing in our job. We are in charge.
John washes his children’s clothes, but – and this is a big but – he does not buy them.
He does not haunt the flea markets for 25-cent sweatpants. He does not sort through the hand-me-downs. He does not rearrange the drawers to make room for the new clothes.
John dresses the baby, but often lets Carol choose the outfit.
He gets the overalls on, but can’t figure out how the hooks work.
He puts on the baby’s bathing suit. The straps criss-cross her chest.
He slips her into her nightshirt. The hood covers her face.
He gets it right the second time.
Is he playing dumb?
I can play dumb. In our house, Jon is in charge of the cooking. He asks me to help by breaking up the lettuce for a salad. I tear it into unmanageably large pieces.
Next time, Jon breaks up the lettuce.
The same way with kids.
We mothers read the parenting books, take the child development courses and spend long evenings on the telephone discussing separation anxiety, cradle cap and pre-reading skills with the other moms.
Baby is only days old but already we have her on the waiting list for that great nursery school over at Cal.
Summer is three months away, but it is not too soon to apply for gymnastics camp in Alameda or horse camp in Lafayette.
We relish our responsibilities.
Dads help – and they are getting more helpful all the time.
When we have an evening meeting, they agree to “babysit.” But when, at the last minute, their employers want them to work late, it is we who must come up with the child-care arrangement – spending 30 minutes of our employer’s time making phone calls.
Mothers are in charge. Fathers help. Perhaps that is why John was so annoyed when Carol complained to him about the bagel incident.
Who wants to help and then be criticized for not helping enough, or for not helping correctly? It’s much more fun to be in charge.
They would be good at it. They would enjoy – and resent – it as much as we.
Trouble is, I’m not willing to let go of motherhood as I have known and enjoyed it. I have ceded enough of my turf as it is.
I’m willing to let Jon have the cooking all to himself.
I’m even willing – though just barely – to let Jon decide whether granola bars are appropriate school lunch box fare.
But that’s it.
Maybe Christina will be different. Maybe – in 2017 – she will let her husband decide between cloth diapers and paper, between the Montessori and the traditional nursery school, between bangs and no bangs for her daughter.
As for me, I’m about as liberated as I can get – for the time being.
© 1987 The Oakland Tribune
