As a parent, the routine of tucking in my youngest little girl, Mia, has become a cherished ritual. Each night, I ensure she has her beloved stuffed animals—her three cherished PJ Masks toys, along with Peppa Pig and her brother George, plus the Moana doll we picked up at Disneyland. Just before bed, I might give her a few cereal flakes and then remind her to brush her teeth again.
Her bedtime prayers are a delightful experience. With her tiny arms crossed over her light blue Cinderella nightgown and her legs tucked under her, she speaks softly, saying, “Dear heavenly father. Thank you for family, church, daddy, amen,” in a voice that dances somewhere between playful and melodic.
After we hug, I often sit beside her as she drifts off, listening to soothing classical covers of popular songs. Sometimes, she fidgets and insists, “I stuck, Daddy. I stuck,” requiring me to lay my arm across her. Other times, she playfully covers her eyes, attempting to trick me into a game of hide and seek, and when I don’t comply, she adopts a comical deep voice and urges, “Go hide, Daddy.”
In these moments, I can’t help but wonder if she’s channeling a mischievous spirit, but in reality, she’s just Mia, the youngest of my three kids. After having a vasectomy a few years back, I view her as my final child. While I know accidents can happen even post-procedure, I prefer to focus on the reality that she’s my last little personality to nurture, and truthfully, I find it hard not to indulge her.
My indulgences aren’t extravagant; I’m not showering her with lavish gifts or yielding to every demand. Instead, it’s the little things, like staying by her side at bedtime. I did this with my older children until they turned two, but with Mia approaching four, I still find myself doing the same. Unlike my older kids, I never allowed them to have snacks right before bed, nor did I give them popsicles regardless of their dinner consumption or allow them to take all their toys into the bath. You get the picture.
My patience with her has grown compared to my earlier parenting days. I’m more understanding when she has her dramatic moments, and I’m more willing to pause my work to listen to her animated stories about Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom or to let her cuddle on my lap as she giggles while stumbling in my shoes.
I often wonder if this behavior qualifies as spoiling. The more I reflect, the more I realize it may stem from my own journey. I became a father at 24, and now at 35, I’ve juggled degrees and jobs while raising two other kids. It often felt as if I was rushing through their early years; I had papers to write and classes to attend, leaving little room for leisurely moments.
With Mia, I relish every bit of her childhood, knowing I won’t get this time back. Her simple needs are such a joy, and few things are as comforting as her cuddling up beside me. I feel like I’m giving her the attention I wish I had been able to provide to my older children. If that means I’m spoiling her a little, so be it. However, it’s important to note that this indulgence is just as much for me as it is for her.
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In conclusion, embracing the joys of parenting my youngest child has brought me a sense of fulfillment that I wish I had experienced fully with my older kids. By savoring these precious moments, I’m not merely spoiling Mia; I’m enriching my own life in the process.