My youngest daughter Little Boots is a little terror. She knows exactly which strings to pull, how hard, and how far. She gets the worst from me, but also the best.
I’m continually wracked with guilt that as number two she doesn’t get the same amount of attention from me as her older sister did when she was the same age. True, she has a loving and doting sister [to bully] but she has 50% of my attention, not 100%. Give or take, allowing for school hours and daycare scheduling.
Every time I go upstairs at night I always go to the bedsides of my sleeping girls (including my wife if she’s shattered and taken an early night), lean over, and check that they’re still breathing. Thank God, they’re still OK. Still alive. Still with me. I love them all, and I never want to lose them.
There’s another regular moment where I’m overwhelmed with love. A moment which happens twice a week which makes my heart completely and utterly melt. And every time I am nearly brought to tears.
It's the moment when I pick up Little Boots from day care.