In the evening ritual, I ensure my daughter, Lily, has her collection of beloved stuffed animals—a trio of PJ Masks characters, Peppa Pig, her brother George, and a Disneyland Moana plush. I offer her a few cornflakes before she brushes her teeth again, which has become a nightly tradition.
As she settles down, her soft arms folded across her Cinderella nightgown, she dips her head and closes her eyes, murmuring a sweet prayer. “Dear heavenly Father, thank you for family, church, and my dad. Amen,” she says, her voice a charming mix of innocence and joy.
After our hug, I sit beside her, often listening to classical renditions of modern songs. There are nights when she resists lying down, insisting, “I’m stuck, Daddy,” a phrase she delivers with a dramatic flair. If I don’t engage in her playful antics, she adopts a comical serious tone and insists, “Go hide, Daddy,” in a voice that’s oddly deep, resembling a character from a horror movie.
But Lily is not a frightening figure; she is simply the youngest of my three children. With a vasectomy completed a few years ago, I regard her as the last child in our family. While I acknowledge the possibility of surprises post-procedure, I focus on cherishing this final phase of parenthood, making it challenging to resist spoiling her.
My approach isn’t extravagant—I don’t shower her with lavish gifts or indulge every whim. Instead, it manifests in small gestures, like being present at the end of her bed while she drifts off to sleep. Unlike my older children, who were encouraged to be more independent by their second birthdays, Lily is nearly four, and I find myself still engaging in these nightly rituals.
I approach parenting with a newfound patience, embracing her occasional tantrums and being attentive to her stories about her favorite shows. I’m more inclined to pause my work to enjoy her company, whether she’s playfully attempting to wear my shoes or curling up in my lap for a snuggle.
This behavior might not fit the traditional definition of spoiling, but it reflects my evolved perspective as a parent. Having become a father at 24 and now at 35, I recognize that life’s demands—finishing my degree while raising young children—often took precedence over quality time with them. Those years felt like a blur, filled with obligations that limited my engagement as a father.
Now, with Lily, I treasure these fleeting moments, knowing I can’t relive these cuddly years. Her challenges seem simpler, and the warmth of her affection is unmatched. In many ways, I feel I’m providing her with the attention I wish I had given to my older children.
Reflecting on this, I wonder if my older kids harbor any resentment towards their younger sister. They might not recall the hectic pace of our lives during their early years, but I can’t help but indulge Lily a bit more. Yet, I realize that my motivations extend beyond her needs; it’s also about my desire to savor these precious times.
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In summary, as a father of three, I’ve learned that the youngest child often receives a bit more indulgence. My journey from a young father to a more seasoned parent has allowed me to appreciate these moments more deeply, leading to a potential imbalance in my children’s experiences.