There’s something inherently bittersweet about knowing your youngest child is the last one to grow up in your home. Each evening, I find myself ensuring that Ella has her beloved stuffed characters by her side as she drifts off to sleep: the trio from PJ Masks, Peppa Pig, and the cherished Moana plush we picked up at Disneyland. I even sneak her a few cornflakes right before bed, followed by a second round of teeth brushing.
As she prepares for sleep, I listen to her heartfelt prayers. With her little arms crossed over a hand-me-down nightgown, she closes her eyes and whispers, “Dear heavenly father. Thank you for family, church, and Daddy, amen” in a voice that’s a mix of charm and innocence.
Our routine continues with hugs, and I join her on the bed, where we listen to soothing classical renditions of popular songs. Sometimes, she wriggles and refuses to lie down, declaring, “I stuck, Daddy.” At other times, she covers her eyes and attempts to initiate a game of hide and seek, using her best serious voice, which sounds hilariously deep and slightly eerie. “Go hide, Daddy,” she insists with a growl.
In these moments, I can’t help but marvel at how she’s not some spooky figure from a horror film. She’s Ella, my youngest child. After undergoing a vasectomy a few years back, I’ve mentally accepted that she’s the last of my little ones. While it’s true that accidents can happen post-procedure, I don’t dwell on that; instead, I focus on the fact that I’m savoring the last of this delightful stage of childhood, and I find it hard to resist the temptation to spoil her.
I’m not showering her with extravagant gifts—my budget simply doesn’t allow for that—but I do find myself indulging her in small ways. Unlike with my older children, I still sit by her side at bedtime, a routine I had phased out by their second birthdays. Ella is nearly four, and yet I continue to do this for her. I never allowed my older two to have snacks just before sleep or to indulge in popsicles no matter how well they ate their dinner, but with her, I find myself bending the rules.
My patience has increased as a parent over the years. I’m more understanding when she throws herself into a fit of frustration, and I’m eager to drop everything to hear her stories about her favorite shows or to let her snuggle on my lap. I chuckle as she clumsily navigates around the house in my oversized shoes.
I question whether this behavior constitutes spoiling. Perhaps it reflects my own evolution as a father. Becoming a parent at 24, I’m now 35 and have juggled schooling and work alongside raising children. I often felt like I missed out on their early years, consumed by the pressures of school and work. With Ella, I’m trying to make the most of the time I have, cherishing her innocent moments as they come.
I can’t help but wonder if this extra attention might cause any resentment among my older children. They may not remember the stress of those early years when I was racing to finish assignments, but I’m aware of the difference in how I’m nurturing Ella.
Ultimately, I realize that my tendency to spoil her isn’t solely for her benefit; it’s a way for me to reclaim the moments I feel I lost with my older kids.
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In summary, knowing that Ella is my last child has shifted my approach to parenting. I find myself indulging her in ways I didn’t with my older kids. As I embrace these moments, I recognize that this isn’t just about her; it’s also about me finding joy in the fleeting years of childhood.