Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Like any normal person with a job, two kids and a front yard full of weeds, I had been sleeping in on a Sunday morning – until the sound of Jon and Peter playing the new Nintendo woke me up. I burst in on them. “HEY. YOU WOKE ME UP.” No answer. So enraptured were they with their dratted boomerangs and Oktoroks they didn’t care that they had wrecked my beautiful Sunday morning sleep-in. I stomped back to bed, covered my head and cried. Read more.
To save money, management had cut my hours back to one day a week. I did what every self-respecting writer does when she’s ticked off at the world. I sat down at the keyboard – and wrote. Read more.
My mother’s last words to me were nothing much. No parting words of love. No heartfelt messages to the grandchildren. Read more.
The baby books assert that American babies and children are ready to sleep through till morning and grant their parents an undisturbed night’s sleep by the time they are a year or so old. Not so in our household. A story from the Mommy Years. Read more.
I’m not very tough-minded. I discourage easily. So I’m careful about the writers I allow to spend time in my psyche, rearranging the furniture. Emil Mihai Cioran, for one, is not so welcome there.
Aside from hosting the rehearsal dinner and showing up on the wedding day in a dress that is neither black nor white, one that obscures the multiple necks and iffy upper arms yet still manages to be pretty – what’s the mother of the groom supposed to do? Read More.