He’s a little Napoleon. He belts out orders, negotiates with authority figures like parents and teachers, and wields his voice like a sword. He craves control (just like his mama). He came out of the womb feisty, and I rejoiced.
He has a physical issue, a thing that could slow him down. In hospitals, they call them “wimpy white boys” — the Caucasian male babies are notoriously weakest when faced with healthy crises. It scares me a little when he declares, “I don’t want to grow up, mom. I just want to be 5 so I can do the climbing wall.” If you’ve ever read “Little Women” you know why that scares me.
But he has grit. He doesn’t give up easily, or at all if he had his druthers. I butt my head against his all day long, and some days I want to bang my head on a wall for all the battles we have.
But way down deep, I am thankful for his spirit. I pray for the wisdom to guide him and help him learn when to fight and when to sit back, when to speak up and when to zip it. I pray for a generous dose of discernment for him, and most of all, I pray that he will live long and prosper.