Your New Bicycle

I’m writing this essay, like everything else I write, on stolen time. When my husband and I moved out of Brooklyn, and into upstate New York — not the cool upstate, the vacation homes and weed-dealing farmer’s markets and artist’s communes an hour or so out of the city, but true upstate, rocky foothills and pine forests and industrial devastation — the only thought on my mind was childcare. We had earnestly believed we would be able to afford day care in Brooklyn; we were wrong; I had signed a deal for a book when I was eight months pregnant, and that book — along with the weekly columns I’d signed up to write, which comprised most of my income — had to be written frantically, and fast, in stolen two-hour spurts when the baby was napping.

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