We Exist Now.

I am looking at instagram, lost in so many stories of loss, while my youngest is in the bath. He is soaking in bubbles, as is required by law, expounding on theory, all pertaining to Sesame Street.

I am here with him because I am still an integral player in his night time routine. He is not a kid we just send up to bed. Night night! Don’t forget to brush your teeth!

His bedtime is a collaboration. Or maybe it’s more like a guided meditation — one that involves water, soap and, on The Dreadful Nights, shampoo.

And I will be the first to say: I am a heavy-handed guide. I like things to get done, and I like them to get done fast.

I have always been this way — a parent of expedience, not a methodical one. I’ve alway struggled with plodding, step-by-step instruction. I am not a teach-a-man-to-fish person; I’m more of a give-a-kid-a-fish person — such that the kid eats the fish that one day and then needs another fish the next day.

I have given out so many fish.

And yet, this fish distribution system was a fine one for my three older kids who all reached a point where they wanted to fish. Like lady, give me the rod already. Show me how to bait, how to cast. To which I said, go ask your dad!

Now, with my youngest, the line of independence is fuzzier. That’s not to say he…