DANA GOODWIN

Despite the pileup of work on my desk, I’ve come home before Jacob’s bedtime. I know that in the next few days I’ll have to burn the midnight oil, but I feel the need to be with my son tonight.

As soon as I enter, Stuart shouts, “We’re up here!” I hear Jacob’s laugh, followed by a splashing sound. I make my way upstairs to find my son and husband in the bathtub, surrounded by bubbles. When it’s dry, Jacob’s curls fall lightly onto his shoulders, but now Stuart has sculpted his hair with shampoo so it sticks straight up, like a Mohawk.

“Lieutenant Stuart and Captain Jacob, reporting for duty,” Stuart says with a mock salute. Then to Jacob: “Skipper, salute our commanding officer, Rear Admiral Mommy.”

My son raises a soapy hand to his forehead and mimics his father’s salute. I play my part, returning it. “You two get good and clean. That’s an order.”

“The captain and I were at the officer’s mess at . . .” Stuart pauses to do the calculation. “Seventeen hundred hours. Mac and cheese. But with the Rear Admiral’s permission, I would gladly join her for a glass of wine and second dinner, after the captain settles into his quarters for the evening.”

“That sounds good,” I say.

I retreat to Jacob’s room. My son runs in a moment later, as naked as the day he was born. His hair is damp, and the sweet floral smell of his shampoo fills the room.

“Jammie time,” I say as I toss a pair of pajamas beside him.

“No. I want to wear Spidey,” he says.

I look back at what I selected—Ironman. I rummage through the drawer a bit more. Batman and Superman are present, but not your friendly neighborhood Spiderman.

“I don’t see Spidey,” I say.

“I wore him before my bath.”

I glance over to the hamper. They’re right on top.

I know that better parenting would be to explain to my son that just as he is now clean, it is important that his pajamas get laundered too. But I’m not willing to risk his being disappointed in me, so I scoop out the pajamas he wants and hand them to him.

He pulls the web-slinger’s shirt over his head. I try to help him with the arms, but from under his shirt he tells me to stop because he can do it himself. When his face reemerges he’s wearing a satisfied grin of independence.

I don’t even ask Jacob to choose a book. Instead, I reach for Mike Mulligan as he wiggles his way under the covers. When he’s all set, I begin to read.