Every night, I ensure that Mia has her three beloved PJ Masks plush toys: Catboy, Owlette, and Gekko. I also make sure her stuffed Peppa Pig and brother George are nestled beside her, along with the 5-inch Moana figure we picked up at Disneyland. Just before bed, I sneak her a few cornflakes and remind her to brush her teeth once more.
Then comes the moment for her prayer. She folds her tiny arms across her baby blue Cinderella hand-me-down nightgown, her legs tucked beneath her on a blue Moana bedspread. With her blond hair falling softly around her face, she bows her head, closes her blue-green eyes, and says, “Dear heavenly father. Thank you for family, church, father, amen.” Her voice dances somewhere between Peppa Pig and a sweet songbird.
After our hug, I sit by her side as she drifts off. We often listen to classical renditions of popular songs together. Occasionally, she won’t lie down, prompting me to drape my arm over her. “I stuck, Daddy. I stuck,” she insists, settling down only after a bit of playful struggle. Sometimes, she covers her eyes and counts to ten in a comically serious manner, attempting to trick me into a game of hide and seek. When I don’t play along, she adopts a deep, gravelly tone and commands, “Go hide, Daddy.”
In those moments, I can’t help but wonder if she’s channeling some mischievous spirit, but ultimately, she’s just Mia, my youngest. With a vasectomy behind me, I see her as our final child. While surprises can still happen post-procedure, I prefer to focus on the fact that she is the last little one to fill our home, and I must admit, it’s challenging not to indulge her.
I’m not showering her with lavish gifts—my budget doesn’t allow for that—nor do I cater to every whim. Instead, I find myself sitting at the foot of her bed each night as she falls asleep, a routine I maintained with my older children only until they turned two. Yet here I am, with Mia almost four, still doing this. Unlike her siblings, I never let them have a snack right before bed, or enjoy a popsicle regardless of their dinner intake, or allow them to toss every toy into the bathtub. You get the idea.
I’ve become more patient with her than I was as a younger dad. I’m more inclined to pause what I’m doing to hear her excited tales about Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom or let her curl up in my lap for a cuddle. Watching her clumsily navigate in my oversized shoes brings a smile to my face.
I often ponder whether this behavior amounts to spoiling her, and the more I reflect, the more I realize that it may be tied to my own journey. I became a father at 24, and now at 35, I’ve experienced life as a student with one child and as a graduate student with two. I often found myself preoccupied with assignments and deadlines, leaving little time for quality moments with my older kids.
Looking back, those preschool years feel like a blur. Anyone who has juggled school and family can likely relate. With Mia, I cherish these fleeting moments because I know I won’t get this time back. Her challenges feel simple, and nothing warms my heart quite like her climbing into my lap.
In many ways, I’m providing her with the time I wish I could have given to her siblings. And yes, maybe I am spoiling her a bit. I wonder if my older children harbor any resentment towards their little sister. Perhaps they don’t recall those early days when I was racing to the next class or getting ready for my next shift. But honestly, I can’t help but indulge my youngest.
But here’s the thing—it’s not just for her. It’s for me too.
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In summary, being a parent to the youngest child brings about a unique experience filled with cuddles and moments I didn’t fully embrace with my older kids. I find joy in spoiling her just a little, and perhaps it’s a way of making up for lost time.
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