After Hours
Occasionally, very occasionally, like when we have a guest in town or when we have a frantic, eleventh-hour errand to run, Andrew and I find ourselves out in the world past 7:00pm. This is rare. Lucia’s bedtime ritual begins promptly at 7:00pm with Baby Spa, itself a ritual that involves undressing, clearing her nose with the nasal aspirator, administering vitamins, splashing around with Pig Duck and her other toys, and then lifting a grinning baby from the water with cries of “Naked baby!” Then comes drying off, lotioning, dressing, blanket-sleepering, and feeding the bedtime bottle of breastmilk. Then comes rocking and singing. Then comes pumping so I have the next night’s bottle. It is a lengthy process.
But on rare occasions, we do find ourselves out there, among childless people, families with babies and kids with later bedtimes, couples with babysitters, older people whose kids are long grown, and crazies who fall into step with us and advise us not to let Lucia out of the house until she’s forty, make her wear a house-arrest ankle bracelet, and encourage her to get her PhD online. And we’re reminded that there is a whole world that takes place past bedtime—a world of restaurants and bars and movies and plays.
On the even rarer occasion when I am out past bedtime by myself, the feeling is decidedly strange. Last week I went to Central Park to get in the standby line for Shakespeare in the Park (an unsuccessful quest) and, after a stop at Fairway on the way home, didn’t return until 9:00pm. The outdoor yoga class I’ve been to twice doesn’t get me home until 7:45pm. And whenever I’m out so late (late!), I feel like I’m doing something completely insane, walking, as I am, without a baby attached to me. I feel as though I’ve temporarily reverted to an older version of myself, the one who left New York. No one who passes me would see any difference (except for my rings, of course), and this is strange, reminding me how little we can know about the people rushing past us.
The fact that walking alone makes me philosophize at all just emphasizes how unusual a thing it is—my mind, without a baby to focus on, has to wander somewhere.
But on rare occasions, we do find ourselves out there, among childless people, families with babies and kids with later bedtimes, couples with babysitters, older people whose kids are long grown, and crazies who fall into step with us and advise us not to let Lucia out of the house until she’s forty, make her wear a house-arrest ankle bracelet, and encourage her to get her PhD online. And we’re reminded that there is a whole world that takes place past bedtime—a world of restaurants and bars and movies and plays.
On the even rarer occasion when I am out past bedtime by myself, the feeling is decidedly strange. Last week I went to Central Park to get in the standby line for Shakespeare in the Park (an unsuccessful quest) and, after a stop at Fairway on the way home, didn’t return until 9:00pm. The outdoor yoga class I’ve been to twice doesn’t get me home until 7:45pm. And whenever I’m out so late (late!), I feel like I’m doing something completely insane, walking, as I am, without a baby attached to me. I feel as though I’ve temporarily reverted to an older version of myself, the one who left New York. No one who passes me would see any difference (except for my rings, of course), and this is strange, reminding me how little we can know about the people rushing past us.
The fact that walking alone makes me philosophize at all just emphasizes how unusual a thing it is—my mind, without a baby to focus on, has to wander somewhere.
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