Henry and I went into the city together, today. We were going to the Shake Shack and then I thought we’d like the Rudolf Stingel exhibit at the Whitney. As it turns out we did not, we wanted to leave almost immediately after he wrote “Star Wars” and I wrote “Carey and David 10 Years” on Stingel’s foil wall, but we did like the Shake Shack and the train ride and I think some of the walking around was okay.

It was strange today not to know, exactly, what my relationship with Henry was. Well, obviously I am his mother and he is my son and I am 35 and he is 6, but apart from that, I was a little adrift. Should I make conversation? Should I bring up topics of interest? Should he? And what would be topics of interest for us? Because most of the things I talk about he considers a little naggy on my part, and most of the things he talks about involve gas or the toilet, which I’m not supposed to be interested in. (Although I am.) In fact, one of our conversations today went like this:

Me: Which was your favorite thing at the Shake Shack? The burger, the fries, or the ice cream?

Him: The burger, definitely. Speaking of which, can I go to the bathroom now?

He really did need to go to the bathroom. The point is, we’re not making witty repartée, for the most part. We don’t drink martinis together and he doesn’t accompany my singing on the piano, either. Sometimes I tell stories, which passes the time, and sometimes Henry pursues a line of inquiry that interests us both for a little while. Who was the first person? That kind of thing.

Today I learned to be quiet, and I got to hold hands. We held hands in the crowded city for almost an entire afternoon, and I will be jealous of my old self for that in the very near future.