I have three children, spaced two years apart. My eldest, now 11, has started devouring massive amounts of food, stomping around the house, and sleeping in until noon. My middle child, 9, is fascinated by amphibians, Star Wars, and has a peculiar obsession with sugar cookies—seriously, he can’t get enough of those sprinkle-topped treats. Then there’s my youngest, who is 7. He adores Star Wars, Amphibia, and Gravity Falls. He spends his time digging holes in the backyard and crafting elaborate imaginary worlds with his LEGOs. When he’s on the swing, he can stay there for an hour straight. I spoil him terribly.
He thrives on it.
Each morning, I greet him with, “Good morning, Sunshine!” and wrap him in a big hug. More often than not, he snuggles up on the couch for a bit more sleep. I make sure he’s cozy with plenty of blankets and a pillow. I say good morning to my other two boys, of course, but they typically gravitate toward our dog instead. Sunny is the one who hugs me. The others prefer the mischievous little terror we call Zelda.
It’s simply too easy.
After all, he’s the baby of the family.
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