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Tag Archives: raising sons

How to Love the Child You’ve Got (Instead of Wishing for a Different One!)

clip_art_illustration_of_a_chair_with_a_flower_pattern_0515-0811-2017-1316_SMUWelcome, friends! I’m so glad you’re here.

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If you’re stopping by from Proverbs 31, I hope you’ll stay a while and enjoy a second dose of encouragement.

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Over at Encouragement for Today,  I’m talking about that one day my son told me he wished he had a different mommy.

And you know what? His wish has come true!

You’re gonna want to read all about it.

But first, let me tell you about the day I wished I had a different child (okay, the years I wished I had a different child).

And how I came to choose the one I’ve got…


I remember the moment I realized that my firstborn had been switched at birth.

The mistake hadn’t been evident right away.

But, in time, the truth seemed obvious.

What else could explain this child who was so different than me?

I’ll admit, in the beginning it had seemed plausible that the miniature bundle of soft pink flesh and coos belonged to me. After all, he’d worn that cute little hospital tag around his ankle with my name carefully printed on it, and those baby blues beneath his long black lashes had certainly favored mine.  He had a birth certificate bearing our family name and slender pink lips that resembled his Daddy’s gentle smile. And if his first hospital photos had been black and white, they might have been mistaken for his great-grandpa’s mugshot.

But when that bundle of wrinkles and wails morphed into a precarious parcel of determination and drive, I began to suspect that something was amiss. My hunch was confirmed on that day when that two-year-old who had captured my heart in the delivery room on a sultry August night looked me straight in the eye and declared with a stomp of his foot, “You’re not the boss of me.”

And that’s when I knew it for certain– We’d made a grave mistake.

This child couldn’t possibly be ours.

The little boy with his mommy’s eyes and his daddy’s smile wasn’t anything like his supposed parents. His daddy was easy going and quick-to-laugh, but our tow-headed toddler was serious and intense.

His mom was creative and communicative, but our firstborn was quiet and persistent, calculated and determined.

 I felt confounded by my firstborn’s temperament and wondered why God hadn’t made my long-awaited son a little more like me.

After all, how can a mom parent a child she doesn’t understand?

Lukas saw life as a race to be run; not a journey to be savored, and he approached every day with an ardor that left me exasperated and exhausted.

Lukas’s feet never slowed. Not for a hug. Or a walk. Or a cuddle.


And as the months turned to years, I secretly wished that God would change him.


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