Children are a Time Capsule of Your Parenting

The kids in a big family don’t all grow up with the same parents. Even when they share the same mom and dad. Time has a way of working on people. Parents aren’t exempt. By the time the youngest arrives, Mom and Dad are changed. Sometimes softer. Sometimes harder. Sometimes both. That can help or hurt. Usually it does a little of each.

Our kids came in waves. The first three were boys, born about two years apart. That was wave one. Then came Nicaea, our daughter. She died. Her death split the timeline. It created a silence between the children we had and the ones still to come.

Then, to our surprise, another girl. She began wave two. After her came Cedar. Then Cyprian. Last came the ones we call the “we thought we were done” wave—Cyrene and Foxe.

From our oldest to our youngest, nearly 18 years span the gap. Long enough for a family to become a living record. Each child carries a piece of who we were. And we carry the weight of who we’ve become because of them.

In the early years, we were wide-eyed and wound tight. We didn’t want to mess it up. Our kids got our time. But the fuel behind it wasn’t just love. It was fear. I’d play with them for hours, then lie in bed convinced I hadn’t done enough.

One of our bigger regrets is how often we spanked. That’s how we were taught. It wasn’t the only tool we used, but it was the one always within reach. And while I see strength and loyalty in our older children, I also see a tension in them. A need to control things. A current of anxiety. I can’t pretend it isn’t connected to how often we reached for the rod.

I’ve had to tell them, more than once, when they asked why the younger kids don’t get spanked as much. I had to say it plain. We spanked you too much. Please forgive us.

Still, a lot went right. They ran wild in creeks, threw balls in open fields, listened to bedtime stories almost every night. They were raised in the church. They learned the Bible and the catechism. And they had a dad who somehow kept going on five hours of sleep. I was strong then. And stubborn. And driven. But we were young and scared. That fear shaped more than we saw at the time.

The world splits history into B.C. and A.D.
Our family splits it before and after Nicaea.

I’ve said a lot about her already. So I’ll just say this. Her death broke something in me. And that break let in something deeper. I learned how to hurt. How to sit with sorrow. How to hold grief and not try to fix it. And that changed how we raised our children.

We grew slower to anger. We didn’t stop spanking altogether, but it wasn’t the go-to anymore. We started reasoning more. Taking things away. Explaining, not just reacting. And, yes, we probably overcorrected. That’s what people do. Our younger ones are looser. A little messier. But I don’t see the same nervous energy in them. They breathe easier.

I’m not as one-on-one attentive as I used to be. I can’t be. I’m outnumbered. But I’ve found new ways to stay close. Family dinners. Friday movie nights. Rides to work. I’ve traded intensity for steadiness. And something better has grown in its place.

If you age right, you mellow in some places and sharpen in others.

When you're young, everything feels big. You chase every little thing. But age teaches you what matters. You see men you once looked up to raise vipers. You watch good intentions rot under pride. And you realize you don’t have the bandwidth to do it all. So you start pruning. You cut what doesn’t bear fruit. And you cling to what does.

Pareto’s Principle shows up. Twenty percent of what you do brings eighty percent of the fruit. You learn to keep the main things, and let the rest go. That’s how you settle down without giving up. That’s how you get sharp without becoming brittle.

Every good parent carries regret. Anyone who says otherwise is lying or too proud to know better. Don’t trust them.

We have regrets. I’ll write more later. But we don’t let them win. My parents failed me in ways. I forgave them. I will fail my kids. I hope they do the same. If not, their day will come. They’ll ask forgiveness from their own children.

Years from now, my oldest will tell stories to my youngest. Stories the little one never heard. And the little one will tell stories back. Different ones. They are both time capsules. They carry pieces of who I was. Good and bad. Light and shadow. But if I keep repenting, if I keep leaning into grace, they’ll look back with love.

No one starts out knowing how to do this, so don’t freeze up. Your kids don’t need pristine parents, there’s no such thing. As the old saying goes, God writes straight with crooked sticks. By grace, He makes saints out of sinners’ children. So give them what you’ve got, and keep chasing Christ with everything in you. Ask Him to make your efforts count. If He can set a soaked altar on fire, He can work through your imperfect parenting.

Keep going, Mom and Dad. You’re not alone. God is with you—and that’s enough.