Jennifer Egan

Haven’t heard a word yet about the Invisible Circus premiere, and to be honest, I’ve hardly thought about it. On the home front, major new ground was broken on Wednesday: David and I stuck Emmanuel in the Baby Bjorn, walked from West 28th Street to French Roast on Sixth Avenue, and had lunch. The amazement and joy we took in this rather simple achievement led David to observe that this must be why people say having kids heightens life’s small pleasures. In any case, I managed to nurse the baby at French Roast without provoking Giuliani’s anti-porn squad (or indeed, attracting the slightest bit of attention), and we continued our walk to Soho, did an errand, and took the subway home. This last was an especially major accomplishment, as there are those who will tell you that you must not take a small baby on the subway—germs—and since we don’t have a car, this interdiction has compounded my landlocked state considerably. The baby screamed less in the evening, and while there may be no connection between that fact and the day’s activities, I suspect there is, because my own desire to scream was also much reduced.

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned that we’re moving to Brooklyn this Tuesday. My mother, a supremely efficient person, is coming from San Francisco to help us; nevertheless, the inevitability of this move has intensified the sense of chaos and confusion in our lives. The phones—David’s especially—ring constantly with mundane, sometimes terrifying news, such as (Wednesday a.m.): “The delivery guy can’t fit the washing machine and dryer through the door.” Since the only appliances you really use when caring for a small baby are a washer and dryer (hence our determination to get them installed before we moved in), this revelation induced panic in me and frustration in David (our personalities laid bare). Eventually it turned out that the delivery guys were wrong about the size of the appliances and will bring them back next week. Crisis averted.

Walking through Washington Square Park, I had one of those moments of feeling how long ago this day would seem from some future point: The two of us, aged 38, taking a walk with our baby in winter, 2001. David in a red cap. So overwhelming, that peculiar variant of nostalgia. So sad.