As the day winds down, I make sure my little one has her beloved stuffed toys by her side: the three PJ Masks characters—Catboy, Owlette, and Gekko—along with her plush Peppa Pig and George, plus a tiny Moana we picked up at Disneyland. I even let her munch on a few cornflakes right before bed, followed by an extra teeth-brushing session.
Then comes her bedtime prayer. She folds her tiny arms over her pastel Cinderella nightgown, legs tucked beneath her as she sits on her blue Moana bedspread. With her blond hair falling gently over her eyes, she murmurs, “Dear heavenly father. Thank you for family, church, father, amen,” in a sweet voice that’s a charming mix of Peppa Pig and a songbird.
After a hug, I settle beside her as she drifts off to sleep, often listening to classical renditions of popular songs. At times, she resists lying down, insisting, “I stuck, Daddy. I stuck,” as I drape my arm over her. Other nights, she covers her eyes and counts to ten, pretending to play hide and seek, but when I don’t comply, she switches to a serious tone, sounding strikingly low and commanding, “Go hide, Daddy.”
In those moments, I can’t help but wonder if I’m raising a mini Pennywise, but really, she’s just Lily, the youngest of my three kids. Having undergone a vasectomy a couple of years ago, I see her as our last child. Sure, accidents can happen even after such a procedure, but I prefer to focus on the fact that she’s my final little goofball at home. Admittedly, it’s challenging to resist the urge to spoil her.
I’m not showering her with lavish gifts or giving in to every whim. It’s more about the little things, like sitting with her at bedtime, a tradition I continued with my older two until they turned two. But with Lily nearing four, I find myself still doing it. I never allowed my older kids snacks right before bed or gave them popsicles regardless of their dinner consumption, nor did I let them fill the bathtub with all their toys.
I approach parenting Lily with a patience I didn’t quite possess as a younger dad. I’m more understanding when she throws a tantrum or when she wants to chat about her favorite show, “Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom.” I often move my laptop aside so she can snuggle on my lap or share a good laugh as she clumsily walks around in my shoes.
I sometimes question if this behavior is genuinely spoiling her. In truth, it feels more like I’m making up for the time I missed with my older kids. I became a father at 24, and now at 35, I remember balancing my studies while raising them. Those preschool years feel like a blur, overshadowed by deadlines and responsibilities.
With Lily, I cherish these fleeting moments, knowing I can’t reclaim her adorable toddler years. Her challenges seem so simple, and there’s nothing quite like having her crawl onto my lap. I find joy in these interactions, feeling like I’m giving her the attention I wish I had been able to offer her siblings.
Maybe I am indulging her a bit, but honestly, it’s not just for her — it’s for me, too.
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In summary, parenting my last child brings both joy and reflection. I find myself cherishing the moments I can spend with her, perhaps overindulging her a little, yet it’s a sweet experience that fulfills my own desires as much as hers.
Keyphrase: Last Child Parenting
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