Walks with Lucia

Lucia and I have walked miles and miles since moving to New York. We take walks every day—at least one, usually two, sometimes three if the day is nice. There are so many places to go, so many things to see; even walking the same route yields countless new sights and sounds. Just yesterday, on our usual walk in Riverside Park, along the Hudson, near sunset, we watched a man set up a tall speaker that soon began emitting music—a waltz? He was joined by a woman, and they began dancing, right there, by the trail, on a small plaza jutting out into the water. The woman, middle-aged, stick thin, had long frizzy hair held back from her face with a wide headband; she wore a tight tank top, no bra, and red satin dancing shoes. She danced with her face serious and set, her eyes closed, and I knew right away she was a Dancer—capital D—spending her life waiting for music to start. She danced earnestly, as though something were at stake. Maybe it was. Maybe it was.

Lucia gets so much attention on our walks. Everyone loves a baby; and with her wide eyes, and the way she leans forward in her stroller, craning her neck to see everything, she invites waves, smiles, and hellos. Sometimes she does a frenetic two-handed wave; sometimes she gives a small, tentative smile; she babbles unselfconsciously. She’s unashamed about staring long and hard, sizing up whoever it is who’s trying to make her laugh. Strangers stop me all the time to tell me how cute she is; a black-sunglassed woman at CVS stopped in her tracks and demanded, “I must look at her.” She stepped back and looked for several long seconds, and then said, “Thank you. That gave me a lift.”

One comment I’ve gotten a couple of times, always following a remark about her cuteness or beautiful eyes, is, “Enjoy her.” Enjoy her—such a strange directive. Do I enjoy her? Do I enjoy having this little girl as my child? Of course I do. I can’t imagine life without her. Do I enjoy every second of our days together? That’s a tougher call. For example, would I say I “enjoy her” as she screams her little head off, with real tears leaking from her eyes, when I do something as horrendous as try to change her diaper? (Beginning about two days ago, diapering has become a battle of wills. Mama has always won so far, but continued success does not seem to be guaranteed.) But usually—yes, dear strangers, I enjoy her, and these fleeting baby days.

Today we did something new: rather than stand outside the gate at the playground across the street from Trump Place, we unlatched it and went inside—and I pushed her in a baby swing. She was unsure at first, her little face serious and wary; she didn’t take her eyes off me as I gently pushed her back and forth. But then she began smiling, and then squealing, and she watched the other kids running around, and seemed to like being part of it. Unfortunately, it began to rain, cutting our swinging short.