Parenting
By Jake Thompson
Each evening, I ensure that my little one has her beloved collection of stuffed animals—Catboy, Owlette, and Gekko from PJ Masks, along with her cherished Peppa Pig and brother George. I even tuck in the small Moana plush we brought back from Disneyland. Just before she drifts off to sleep, I sneak her a few cornflakes and remind her to brush her teeth once more.
As she prepares for sleep, I listen to her sweet prayer. She folds her tiny arms across her light blue Cinderella nightgown, her legs tucked beneath her on a blue Moana bedspread. With her blond head bowed and her blue-green eyes closed, she softly says, “Dear heavenly father. Thank you for family, church, Dad, amen,” in a voice that blends the charm of Peppa Pig with a gentle melody.
After our hug, I settle next to her in bed while we listen to classical renditions of popular tunes. Sometimes, she refuses to lie down, prompting me to drape my arm across her. “I stuck, Daddy. I stuck,” she giggles before finally settling. Occasionally, she hides her eyes and counts to ten in a not-so-convincing attempt at a game of hide and seek, and when I don’t budge, she adopts a mock-serious tone, deepening her voice to say, “Go hide, Daddy,” sounding almost like a character from a horror movie.
In these moments, I catch myself imagining her as a mischievous character.
But really, she’s Lily, my youngest child. A couple of years ago, I took the step of getting a vasectomy, so for me, she’s my last. While I am aware that accidents can happen even after such a procedure, I don’t dwell on that. Instead, I focus on the fact that this is the final little whirlwind I will have in my home, and I must admit, it’s challenging not to indulge her.
It’s not about lavish gifts or giving in to every request. I simply find myself sitting at the edge of her bed each night as she falls asleep, something I did with my first two children only until they turned two. But Lily is nearly four, and the routine has continued. I never allowed my older kids to snack right before bedtime, or enjoy popsicles regardless of what they ate at dinner, or to turn their bath into a toy extravaganza—you get the picture.
I find myself being more patient with her than I was in my younger parenting days. I’m more inclined to pause and listen while she passionately recounts an episode of her favorite show, or to push aside my laptop so she can cuddle in my lap, or share a laugh as she clumsily maneuvers in my oversized shoes.
I’m starting to wonder if this can truly be classified as spoiling. Maybe it speaks to my own journey at this stage in life. I became a father at 24, and now at 35, I reflect on the years spent juggling my education and parenting. I navigated my undergrad with one child and grad school with two, often feeling overwhelmed by deadlines and responsibilities.
Looking back, I feel as though I missed out on a lot during my older kids’ preschool years. Anyone who has tried to balance college and family life can relate to this struggle. I recall being a full-time-plus student with a part-time job, which often left me feeling like a half-hearted dad.
With Lily, I cherish every fleeting moment, knowing these early years won’t come again. Her concerns are simple, and there’s a unique warmth in having her climb into my lap. Sitting beside her as she drifts off is one of the sweetest parts of my day.
In a way, I feel like I’m giving her the attention I wish I could have offered my older children. This realization leads me to question whether I’m inadvertently causing any jealousy among them. Perhaps they don’t remember that frantic time when I was rushing to classes or papers, or just trying to catch some sleep before another busy day. But I can’t help but spoil my youngest.
And honestly? It’s not really for her. It’s for me.
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