I took Henry to tennis. I told him that even if he fell asleep in the car on the way to tennis, like he did last week, he would still have to get up and go in to tennis. I said, Do you understand me, Henry? His eyes were half-closed. We were listening to a Steve Carell interview and a review of two percussion albums. He said he understood. He asked me not to turn the station. He wanted to hear the review of the percussion albums.

We got to tennis ten minutes early. Henry told me to walk with him to the back room and to stand quietly and not talk. I sat down, but he wouldn’t sit down with me. He stood behind me. I had two books with me, so I could read while he played tennis. They were ridiculous choices. One was a study of Japanese people and culture published in 1946. The other was a collection of three short novels by Karel Čapek that I had already read before, but had forgotten I had read. In any case, I wouldn’t have been able to read, because I was worrying about Henry. He stood behind me, silent and nervous. I tried to talk to him, but he would only nod back at me. He had told David that the other boys were mean to him, and that’s why he didn’t want to go to tennis. I was there to stop this from happening. But he didn’t think I could.

Four mothers sat around a table, talking loudly. Each had arranged herself with the aim of expressing nothing personal through her appearance, except wealth. I thought, If children come from these parents, how can I blame Henry for not liking them? My incandescent son. Ten minutes passed. It was time for tennis, and Henry hurried through the door, onto the court. I moved to a chair by the window with my book on Japanese people and culture in 1946, so I could watch him. He stood very tall and silent on the court. He did what the coach asked him to do. I held my breath. He hit the ball. He high-fived the other boys. I had to call David. Henry’s having fun, I whispered.

I used to worry a lot about death. I can’t say I’ve stopped, entirely, but lately I’ve wound it down. I miss worrying about death, actually, because it was such a nice solid unanswerable thing to worry about, and I didn’t have to feel petty that it made me so anxious. Of course it made me anxious, it was death! Death is really, really scary and bad! Now when I’m very anxious I have to admit, as I did this morning, that it’s just about how people perceive me, not getting work done, and feeling that I’ve failed. Which is silly, really. Or at least more silly than death.

Now I worry about my back going out. Yes, there are plenty of things to worry about, but none as satisfying as death.

For the first several days of any vacation, I think, What’s vacation for? That’s how much fun I am to be with.

But I’m even more fun before vacation starts. Five days, maybe six, if you’re lucky, and sometimes people are very lucky, I know my husband considers himself (he’s said this) the luckiest man on the face of the Earth, before we leave I become, what’s the word? totally anxious about everything that I ever had to do or will have to do until the end of time. What about the children? is a thing I think to myself. They will have school in three weeks. What am I going to pack for Henry’s lunch? How will I ever get the doctor to sign their medical forms? How will I convince her to do this? And money! We might not have enough! David, do we have enough money? He says What? and rolls over. Also: Did I really graduate from law school? I never got my diploma in the mail, it’s true. On the other hand, the school communicated with the Bar and I couldn’t have passed the Bar if I didn’t graduate and I did pass the Bar. And yet those dreams that I have another paper to write are so convincing. Speaking of dreams, and writing, and all that, all that good stuff, Did I spend the last six years writing a shit novel? I hope not! Body hair. I must have it removed. Am I inappropriate with the children? Was Mom tense on the phone with me? What did Dad mean when he said that thing the other day? And what about the laundry and I have to get to the drug store and are we renting car seats? Aha! That’s it! Those things are vacation things. I’m tense about vacation! Relief floods through me, my husband is grasped around the middle and lifted into the air, the children are kissed all over their ears, because they've turned their heads from me. Vacation! Not my whole fucking life. Thank God. Now I can go lie on the sofa and put off packing until the last possible minute.

I’m not leaving tomorrow, by the way, I’ll be here tomorrow, but after that you’ll have to win your own round-robins and threaten your own children and wish you were somewhere else, on your own. You won’t have me to do it for you. You’ll have to make your own half-assed references to other people’s art. Maybe this will be good for you. Maybe this is just the kind of thing you need. I think it is, actually. You’re lazy, and you’re soft.