Parking in New York sends you to ecstasy or rips your heart out. Which is to say, it’s a natural continuation of family life. Most of the time it is joyous. Joy is an odd word to use in connection with parking, but some of my happiest moments have come in connection with finding a good parking space. Often enough, though, it is terrible — so it feels like an even balance, and for this reason, parking the car is always an occasion of great suspense.

Take one recent evening, a Wednesday: we arrived in our neighborhood at the end of an ambitious expedition, our bedtime schedule long lost. There had been a truly fantastic sunset that we witnessed coming down the Henry Hudson Parkway, but our pleasure was diminished by the fact that the baby was asleep in the car. It was after 8 P. M. He would need to be woken and bathed. The only question was if Evangeline — five years old — might still get to bed at a somewhat reasonable hour.

The answer lay with the fate of the parking.

We approached our block, our building. A tremor of hope that a miracle would occur moved through my wife and me, battling despair as the alternative scenario. I asked her the usual question, like the riddle of the Sphinx: “Do you want to get out with the kids or do you want to drive around with me looking for a spot?”

She doesn’t find this choice easy. I don’t blame her. In this sense I have it easy — I will park the car. It is a necessity. She is an excellent driver but this parking duty feels fatherly, hunter-gatherer, stoic.

Internet: <www.newyorker.com> (adapted).