Raising kids a decade apart (and still wondering if I’m doing it right)

Our last family vacation before the older siblings head off to college

This fall, I’ll be moving our oldest daughter into a house with five of her friends for her junior year of college, dropping our son off at a dorm for his freshman year, and helping our youngest pick out her outfit for the first day of middle school.

Yup. Two in college. One in sixth grade.  Pray for me.

How am I doing? I’m fine. Everything is fine. (Translation: I’m one Sarah McLachlan-SPCA-commercial away from a complete meltdown.)

So let’s just get ahead of the questions, shall we? Yes, our youngest was a surprise. Yes, she’s also the biggest blessing and completed our family in a way we didn’t even know we needed.  Yes, there’s a 10+ year age gap. We’re aware. So is our lower back.

And yes, she’s been raised completely differently from her siblings. And you know what? That’s not just okay. It might be better. (Well, according to her older siblings, it was better.)

With the first two? We were intense.

I’m talking about nursing schedules taped to the fridge, debates over which formula had the least amount of evil in it, sterilizing pacifiers like we worked in a biohazard lab, blackout curtains, sound machines, white noise apps, a bedtime chart - basically, a PhD in overachieving parenting.

They weren’t allowed to watch TV until they could recite the alphabet while doing a backflip (Kidding. Mostly.)

Then came our youngest. And the sweet girl, bless her heart, was raised by a mom who had already survived diaper blowouts in grocery store parking lots, who understood that mac and cheese is a food group, and who no longer had the energy or the desire to sanitize every surface within a 12-mile radius.

The pacifier dropped on the floor? That bad boy got a five-second-rule swipe and went right back in. Her immune system was going to be strong. I was building resilience.

I wouldn’t say I was a better mom to the first two, or a lazier mom to the last. I’m just a different mom.

But that difference?

That’s where the judgment sneaks in. And not from other people, but from me.  I'm judging myself for what I did or didn’t do with the first two.

Here’s the part no one tells you: your kids will notice the differences. Oh, they’ll say it with a smirk, but that smirk has layers.

“Wow, she got a phone already?” “Wait, she went to Starbucks three times this week? “You never let us do that.”

And they’re not wrong.

I parented them with the rulebook and a very lean bank account. Now I parent with a combination of instinct, Google, and the Holy Spirit.

But every time one of them points out how different it is, it stirs something in me, not guilt, exactly, more like judgment.

Like maybe I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time. Like I should’ve figured it out sooner or gotten it “right” from the start. That whisper of “If only you had… more money. Less stress. More wisdom. You know, back when you were doing your best to survive.

But here’s what I’m learning, slowly and awkwardly: I didn’t get it wrong. I just grew.

And that booming voice of judgment? The one that wants to yell I didn’t do enough, that I’m messing it up now, that I’ve somehow failed one kid by doing better for another?

That’s not the voice of Jesus. Because Jesus doesn’t measure us by parenting perfection, and He certainly doesn’t shame us.

Jesus sees me, messy, exhausted, still figuring it out, and calls me His.

And when I look at how Jesus interacted with people, it’s clear: He never parented (or disciplined) one-size-fits-all. He spoke differently to each person.

To Peter, impulsive and passionate, Jesus was direct, rebuking him one moment (“Get behind me, Satan!”) and restoring him with deep love the next (“Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”).To Thomas, a logical and skeptical person, Jesus didn’t scold. He invited. “Put your fingers here. See my hands.”To John, the sensitive one often called “the disciple Jesus loved,” Jesus gave tender care, even asking him to care for Mary from the cross. And to Martha, stressed and overwhelmed, He gently reminded her that presence matters more than performance.

Same Jesus. Different approach. Because people are different, because love doesn’t always look the same, it just always shows up.

Perhaps I didn’t parent all my kids the same way. But I loved them uniquely. And that counts.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me earlier: You are allowed to change. You’re supposed to. That doesn’t mean you were wrong back then. It just means you’re growing, right now.

And here’s what I know to be true: God wasn’t surprised by our youngest. The age gap didn’t deter Him. He knew exactly who I’d be when I became her mom.

God wasn’t surprised by my timeline, and I don’t have to be ashamed of my process.